


Uncanny

by missymisery



Category: Gotham (TV), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Gun Violence, Hand Wavey Gun Use, M/M, Making This Up As I Go, Manipulation, No Smut, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Self-Harm, Tetch Virus, Violence, at least for someone, because victor, child prostitution, everyone is needlessly cryptic, i mean child killer does that count, ish?, not everythings gonna happen like it did in canon, nothing explicit (its all implied and just mentioned) but its there, number of chapters might change thats just in my outline, original backstory, oswald and the administrator are twins, past relationship, probably not a happy ending, secret twin, set mid s3, unrequited romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missymisery/pseuds/missymisery
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot is dead. So with the sudden emergence of the elusive Administrator (who, Victor thinks, has an uncanny similarity with the late mayor) whoinsistshe isn’t, Victor is both peeved and baffled.Really, Victor Zsasz wouldn’t have helped if the Administrator hadn’t pulled out the familiar sheen of a long forgotten marker.He really wouldn’t have.Alternatively: Oswald’s not actually dead, Victor’s got repressed feelings, and Ed fucks everything up. It goes about as well as you think.





	1. Request

The Administrator’s face was stoic, as always, like it was carved from rock, expression unreadable from behind those glasses.

It‘s been a while since he saw that look on that face. Victor was much more accustomed to sudden bursts of rage, brows furrowed and lips curled into a sneer. The Penguin wasn’t good at remaining expressionless. But, if today was anything to go by, the Administrator was.

Aimlessly, Zsasz took note of the situation. A gun was pointed at him. 9mm pistol. At this distance, the Administrator wouldn’t miss, and it wasn’t like Victor was going to try to avoid the bullet if the Administrator were to fire. Victor knew the Administrator wasn’t going to shoot, even with the safety clicked off. This was all just a formality.

“What brings you here?” Victor asked lazily, walking over to the bar off his side, picking up a bottle of liquor and popping off the cap. The Administrator’s eyes remained trained on him, the pistol following Victor’s steps. He grabbed a glass from a shelf, setting it down with a quiet _thud_. With his back turned, he poured himself a drink. “Didn’t think you guys had vacations.”

For a moment, Victor thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“We don’t,” The Administrator said after a moment, voice even, as if he were choosing his words carefully. “I’m here purely on business.”

“Of course,” Victor said. No surprise there, he thinks, turning around to face the Administrator, lifting the glass up to his lips to take a drink. “When is it ever _not_ business.”

The Administrator didn’t say a word, instead focusing to keep his eye on Zsasz as impassive and emotionless as possible. Victor took a second to look at him. The Administrator was every bit the mirror image of the late Oswald Cobblepot. It was unnerving, he’d admit. He didn’t know if the two were actually related or this was just one of the cases of people looking eerily alike. Victor once heard that everyone’s got a lookalike out there, so that was definitely a possibility, but knowing Gotham, it could be something else. Like that Indian Hill stuff. But what does he know? He remembers idly that whole Isabella debacle—he didn’t know details, just little bits from what he could gather—and how it led to Oswald’s untimely demise. Apparently she looked exactly like Nygma’s dead ex, and he killed her. 

“Zsasz.”

Victor was brought out from his musings by the Administrator’s voice—it was far too similar to Oswald’s for it to be a coincidence, that much he was sure—and he blinked, looking back up at the man who had a gun trained in on him.

“Yeah?”

“You seemed lost in thought.”

“It was nothing,” He said, brushing it off. “Still kinda confused why you’re here, though.”

“I told you. It’s business.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Victor said, rolling his eyes. “But why send you? Did they run out of adjudicators?” 

The Administrator didn’t respond for a moment. “They thought I was more well suited for this task, seeing my... unique position.”

“You know you can just say it, right,” He said. “You look exactly like Oswald friggin’ Cobblepot. You’re like Penguin 2.0.”

The Administrator glared at him. “I’d rather you didn’t phrase it that way.”

“Look,” Victor said, setting down his glass. “I’m just kinda confused by this whole situation. What happened to Gotham being too unruly for the High Table, or whatever?”

“Things have changed. The Table no longer entrusts the Court to maintain control over the city. They’ve tasked me to secure hold over Gotham’s criminal underground for them.”

“So that’s why you’re here?” Victor asked. “That’s stupid. You’d never be able to get the criminals here to agree to your stupid gold coin system. Trust me, Admin—these guys? We’ve got our own set of rules here.“

“We aren’t trying to integrate Gotham into the rest of the world’s criminal system,” The Administrator said, irritated. “We’re simply trying to control it. Like putting a dog on a leash.”

Victor pursed his lips. “So... how do you plan on doing that? By assuming Penguin’s identity? Because, no offense, Cobblepot would never be caught with a bunch of tattoos and piercings.”

The Administrator rolled his eyes. “No, Victor,” He said, staring at Zsasz for a moment before turning the safety of his gun back on and putting the gun back on his belt. He put his hand in his pocket and took something out. Metal glinted in his hand. “You’re going to help me.”

“Oh,” Victor said, eyes widening. “Oh fuck off. Fuck you. I don’t play by those rules anymore. This is _Gotham_. Nobody uses that shit here.” 

“You owe me,” The Administrator said plainly. “I mean, there’s a reason why you’re even allowed to be here, Zsasz. And that reason is me.” 

He held out the marker. 

“You’re going to help me look for Oswald Cobblepot.”


	2. Inquire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor has some questions.

Victor blinked in confusion.

The Administrator was still holding out the marker, the metal shining under Victor’s apartment light. The marker’s original sheen has been dulled by time, its previous brilliance now lost as Victor saw it now. But its significance remains the same. Inside the metallic confines of the marker was his blood, drawn a long time ago. A marker is a marker, and no matter what, every assassin was bound by its rules.

No matter how you tried to escape.

“You... you know he’s dead, right?” Victor said.

The Administrator shook his head. “Penguin is alive.”

“And what is that... twin telepathy?” Victor said, half kidding. The Administrator glared at him. But really... the likelihood of the two being related was hard to say exactly, in Victor’s opinion. Oswald was very protective about his mother, and when broached on the topic regarding his parents (one that Zsasz always regrets asking, mind you, because the former kingpin of Gotham’s criminal underbelly would go off and be so sappy about it) he’s never mentioned a brother. “Come on, you have to try harder than that. Everybody knows Cobblepot was shot and dumped in the river by Edward Nygma.”

“It wouldn’t be his first brush with death,” The Administrator said, pocketing the marker. “Need I remind you his debacle with Jim Gordon?”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Victor said. “Gordon wanted Penguin to live. Nygma didn’t.”

The entire thing between Nygma and Cobblepot was stupid, really, Victor thinks. Something involving a woman who looked like Nygma’s dead ex (who he murdered? Victor wasn’t keen on the details) and Cobblepot being a total dumbass and killing her, leading to a series of events that got Oswald killed. But whatever. Barbara Kean was sinking her claws into power and control and this is already the _third_ power shift in the last year. Gotham’s underground was restless and he had to pick his side correctly, so the only way to do that is to wait for everything to stabilize and then he can choose which criminal boss is worth his time. Besides, he didn’t like constantly switching between bosses. It’s inconvenient.

“I have a source that tells me he is alive,” The Administrator said. “I don’t know where, or how, but here are the facts: Oswald Cobblepot is not dead. His body was not found in the river where he was supposedly killed, and somebody spotted a redheaded woman carrying his body away.”

“A source?”

“A trustworthy one, if you’re worried about its credibility,” The Administrator said simply. Victor cursed to himself. Dammit. Stupid High Table goons being so cagey. “The Table has eyes everywhere, Victor.”

Victor pursed his lips and leaned back against the bar. “So... Cobblepot’s alive.”

“Yes,” The Administrator said, irritated at having to say it for the nth time. “I’m invoking this marker so you can help me find him.”

“Fine,” Victor said, letting his fingers grip the edge of the desk and pushing himself forward, taking a step towards his latest contractor. Because that’s what this was: a contract. Sure, it might not entail money, but it did sure as fuck ensure he didn’t end up with a thousand bullet holes riddled all over his chest. “Not like I have a choice, really, but why do you need to look for Cobblepot? You said the High Table tasked you with taking over Gotham.”

The Administrator nodded. He walked over to the bar, and it’s a little weird seeing him with that face taking confident strides, back straight, not hunched and hobbling over, the other leg’s steps delayed and slow.

“May I?” He asked, gesturing to a bottle of scotch.

“Yeah, sure,” Victor said.

The Administrator opened a bottle and poured himself a glass. “To answer your question, Victor, I need Penguin so I can take hold of the city. I am an outsider, after all and I’m not aware of the city’s rules, as you put it. Cobblepot has experience and the knowledge of the ins and outs of Gotham. Once we secure him, it’ll all fall into place.”

“Okay, but even if he’s alive, which I doubt he is, it’s not like he has power anymore. Barbara Kean’s got her hands all over the criminal underbelly and considering this is the second time he’s been overthrown, the other crime bosses aren’t going to hold much weight on Oswald’s words.”

“I’ve done my research,” The Administrator said, chuckling a little, though it was an empty sound, as if he were simply filling up empty space. “He’s a remarkable man, I’ll tell you that. From an umbrella holding nobody to the king of Gotham... then overthrown, then when thrust back into power, he sinks his teeth not only in the criminal underworld but in the political limelight? He seized control of both the legal and illegal side of power—like two sides of the same coin. I’m sure he can find his way back to the top. And plus... now he’s got the backing of the High Table. There would be no way for him to lose control again.”

“You really think he’s just going to trust you?” Victor asked. He asked this despite knowing the Administrator won’t give him a full answer. The members working under the High Table were all so secretive, and the Administrator was no exception. He knew that the Administrator wasn’t exactly lying, but not quite telling him the whole truth—Victor could see it in his eyes, the way he paused and shifted his head, as if carefully choosing his words. Another reason why he knew this wasn’t Oswald Cobblepot.

Oswald was clever, insanely so, but one thing Victor knew about Cobblepot for sure was that he tended to let his feelings—if not intentions—show on his sleeve. But the Penguin knew just what to say to get everyone to overlook that. The Administrator kept his emotions hidden—very typical for someone of his position—and locked behind a facade of stoicism and empty smiles. But he couldn’t fool Victor. If there was one thing Victor knew, it was to never trust anybody whose strings were held by the unseen fingers of the High Table.

“Oh, I know he’s going to trust me,” The Administrator said, taking a sip of his drink. “I can be very persuasive, you know.”

“Mm,” Victor said. There was more to the Administrator’s words, but Victor didn’t dwell on it.

He was never one to think too much about things—not for a lack of sharpness but because he knew it wouldn’t do him any good, and because he knew it wasn’t his place to question it.

Still, he filed it away for later.

Right now, he’d go along with the Administrator’s orders, see where this leads.

 

* * *

 

Edward Nygma was frustrated. Immensely so. His latest attempt at finding a new guide didn’t go so well—only led to another dead body, one of the stars of Gotham’s brightest snuffed out forever. He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh of irritation as he scrunched his eyes tight, standing at his room at the manor.

“What am I missing...” He muttered.

“Sleep, mostly,” A familiar voice said from off the side.

His eyes snapped open and he let out another groan. “I thought you’d wear off by now.”

Oswald limped over to him, dripping wet and skin cold and grey. Anyone else would be horrified at the sight, but Edward knew logically that this was just a projection of his mind, that none of this was real, so he ignored the pitter patter of the river water that soaked Oswald’s damp coat as it hit the floor, ignoring how it pooled at their feet, ignoring the scent of musky water that seemed to be stuck on Oswald.

“Nope, still here, _Ed_ ,” Oswald said, almost sarcastically, eyes wide and lips curled up into a smirk, and Ed hated how smug he looked. “You know, this whole thing is stupid.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Ed said, moving away from the drug induced hallucination of his dead ex best friend.

“You actually did,” Oswald said, and Ed couldn’t believe that his subconscious somehow projected Oswald to be even more irritating, poking holes at every plan he made, everything he said. “I mean, why else take the drugs, right?”

“Shut up,” He muttered, knowing Oswald was right.

“I’m your subconscious, Ed. If I think it’s stupid, it probably is.”

“I guess it’s great that I’m the one with the conscious mind, then,” He snapped back. “I’m the one making decisions, not you.”

Oswald pursed his lips. “That’s true, but you aren’t the least bit concerned your mind’s at least half concerned over this _ridiculous_ plan? If your subconscious is telling you you’re wrong, there’s probably some value to that, Ed.”

He really hated how Oswald enunciated his name, the way Oswald shifted his head and stared at Ed.

“Wrong,” Ed said, turning to face Oswald. “You’re a drug induced nightmare. A figment of my imagination. You only act the way I want you to be, and apparently that’s being a total nuisance and giving me a headache.”

“Hey—“

He jammed a finger at Oswald’s chest. “If you’re not going to be helpful, don’t waste my time.”

Oswald’s eyes were wide, staring at Ed’s hand and saying nothing.

He turned around, crossing his arms and stewing in his frustration. He half expected Oswald to give a snarky retort by now, saying that his snide remarks were him being helpful, but when he turned around, the ghastly image of his best friend was gone.

Idly, he wondered if ghosts were real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I read up a bit on season 3’s plot again and tried to clear out my thought process for how I want this to go—still a bit messy, but I’m getting there. I’m trying to figure out how I want to write Admin here, and it’s a bit of a struggle, so please bear any inconsistencies I might have. On that note, this is also the first time I’ve written Ed, so I hope it’s okay! I tried my hardest. I hope people are enjoying this! Thanks for everyone who’s left a review or a kind comment—it really means a lot. :)


	3. Assess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Administrator has some questions of his own.

The penthouse was impressive, Victor thought. Minimal in design, with sleek surfaces and wooden accents, it was all very geometric, clearly designed by someone with an eye for detail. A potted plant sat by the doorframe, its long leaves hanging down its thin branches and stem.

It was all aesthetically pleasing, Victor knew without a doubt, not something an average passerby would take a closer look at. A painting on the left side of the hall, a table underneath it with a glass decor, wooden floors—it was very easy on the eyes. It was perfect in every way. But knowing the High Table, and knowing the Administrator, the place was soulless, not betraying a hint of personality.

Very fitting, he thinks, his eyes gazing around as he let himself get comfortable on the awfully soft cushions of the Administrator’s couch.

The man himself was in the kitchen, fetching them both a cup of tea. Kind of him to be such a gracious host after forcing Victor to even help him, Zsasz thought bitterly. “So A,” He said loudly for the other man to hear from the other end of the room. “What’s the plan?”

The Administrator looked up from under the counter, one hand holding a saucer with a teacup delicately placed on top of it. “I’m not sure if I think it would do me any good to tell you that,” He said carefully, voice even and not betraying anything.

Translation: there is no plan.

It was at this point Victor realized the Administrator was probably making this up as it goes along, and he was pulling all of this out his ass, because there is no possible way the Administrator actually thought any of this through. Victor was pretty sure that _he_ was as far as the plan went.

The Administrator set down two cups in the table in front of them before taking a seat in the chair to the left of Victor.

“Seriously?” Victor said, giving the Administrator a look. “Are you seriously just bullshitting your way through this insane plan?”

“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” The Administrator said simply, taking a sip of his tea. God, he looked insufferable.

“You know what I mean. There is no plan.”

“There is one,” The Administrator insisted, voice hurried and almost like a hiss, and Victor knew that he was right. There wasn’t a plan. “One that I don’t think you should be privy to, _Victor_. Your job is to sit here and follow orders.”

“I can’t follow orders if I don’t know what they are, _boss_ ,” Victor huffed, annoyed. The Administrator glared at him as he put emphasis on the last word, sarcasm dripping off his tone.

The Administrator leaned back in his seat and set his cup down. It was quiet for a moment, the Administrator seemingly thinking for a second. Then, he spoke.

“Tell me about Barbara Kean.”

“Wow sure, avoid the issue,” Victor said raising his hands up in frustration.

“You mentioned her earlier,” The Administrator said, ignoring Victor. “I don’t usually take much interest in street gossip and rumors considering my post as head of the Administration—we don’t typically get involved in outside affairs, we just organize paperwork and carry out our orders, as should you, Victor—but as of late it seems I should put more stock into the whispers of thugs and disorderly thieves. Who is she?”

Though he was still peeved about the lack of a proper response, Victor let it slide. “Gotham’s latest kingpin. Or is it queen-pin? Whatever,” Victor answered. “But she’s basically the latest hotshot. The new head of the underworld. She helped Nygma get his revenge on Penguin.”

“And you’re not working for her? I was under the impression you served under the one who holds power, mostly,” The Administrator said.

“Because, A, it’s bad for business if people think you’re that fickle to switch sides as soon as someone bigger goes to snatch the crown,” Victor said. “I gotta wait it out, you know? Let it all die down before actually looking for work.”

The Administrator nodded. “Smart thinking. Proving you’re capable of loyalty. That’s a good strategy.”

“Yeah, kinda makes me miss the old days, with Falcone...” He trails off, staring into his tea.

He missed Carmine. A lot, actually. The old guy was out of town these days, not minding the ins and outs of Gotham’s criminal world, and watching everything go to shit makes Victor wish the he was still in Gotham, making sure everybody wasn’t out to rip each other’s heads off. Because truthfully... Falcone was the one who kept order in this city. When he left, everything just became a mad dash for power, everyone stabbing each other’s backs and not caring for code or laws. It wasn’t too far off from a bunch of schoolchildren fighting over whose turn was it to be ringleader, except this time it was a bunch of criminals whining saying _it’s my turn to be king_! Oswald was a good contender, if a little impulsive—he kept everyone in line, and they didn’t try any funny business, mostly out of fear, til Gilzean broke out of his conditioning (which, by the way, Victor was still pretty pissed about, because that was a good chunk of his time wasted, and he was kind of proud how he broke Gilzean’s unyielding loyalty towards Fish altogether) and helped Galavan get rid of Penguin.

“Falcone?”

He looked back up at the Administrator. “Oh, yeah. That was a while back. Carmine Falcone. He used to head the criminal underground before Oswald took over. Gotham used to at least kinda have a sense of order, y’know? He’s the guy who kept everything from going to shit.”

“Yes... I read about him,” The Administrator said. “He was your former employer?”

He nodded. “A damn good one, too,” Victor said, sipping his tea. “Oswald just kinda yells a lot.”

“Hmm,” The Administrator said, thinking. “Ms. Kean is nothing at all like either of them?”

Victor snorted. “As much as the beaky little guy can be annoying sometimes, he’s still leagues above Barbs. He basically changed the whole game. And Falcone was head for _years_. Everything was carefully placed, everything had an order, then Cobblepot single handedly destroyed all of that, and I think that’s pretty admirable. What did Kean do, other than get Nygma and Cobblepot to turn against each other? It’s kinda ridiculous.”

“Still, she’s clever,” The Administrator said. “Making use of their status as friends against them.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “Admin, this is _Gotham_. That happens at like, every corner.”

The Administrator ignored him (surprise surprise) and leaned forward a bit. “Where can I hope to see her?”

Victor opened his mouth to respond, then closed it.

He blinked.

A beat.

“A, what the fuck.”

“What?” The Administrator looked genuinely confused, which was honestly kind of a break from the constant emotionless and fake expressions flitting across his face. “I would like to see Ms. Kean.”

“You want to see Barbara Kean?” Victor asked, incredulous. “ _You_? What good does that do you?”

“She can help us in our search,” The Administrator said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She controls Gotham. If anyone can find Penguin, it’s her.”

“She’d blow your head off before you even make it through the door,” Victor said, in disbelief. “Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

“It’s a good plan.” The Administrator scrunched his brows in irritation, staring at his tea as he grit his teeth and gripped the ledge of his seat tightly.

“It _would_ be, if you didn’t look exactly like the guy she led to his death!” Victor shot back. “God, are you even thinking?”

“Victor, you’re going to do as I say,” The Administrator hissed, snapping his head back up at Victor. Victor groaned, knowing he couldn’t argue against it, despite knowing it was a colossally bad idea. “Now tell me where I can find her.”

“She heads a club called the Sirens,” Victor said. “With Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean. Seriously, Admin—this is a very bad idea. She’s just going to kill him if she finds him.”

The Administrator sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Victor, I know what I’m doing.”

Victor scoffed. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, _really_ ,” The Administrator said, clearly irritated. “Like I said, I have a plan. Besides, I think I can persuade her.”

Victor gave him a questioning look. “How?”

The Administrator let out a low chuckle. “Tell, me, Victor—what is it that drives people into a life of crime?”

“Uh... money?” At least, that’s what most people he knew were after. Underlings, at least. Victor saw money as a secondary benefit, getting to unleash hell on those unlucky enough to be chosen as targets was his primary motivation, though.

“Yes, it’s what drives us all into temptation,” The Administrator said. “At least, people who don’t go into our line of work. Money, power... these things drive people into a life of crime and corruption. Unlike a majority of those serving the High Table, an adjudicator or myself for instance, most criminals work for their own self interests, not for any other greater purpose. Barbara Kean would be no different.”

“You’re going to offer her money?”

“No, something better,” The Administrator said. “Security. Right now her position isn’t stable and it’s more than easy for her to lose what she just gained. She’ll be desperate for even a chance to ensure her power doesn’t fall from her grasp. After all, there is no organization more capable of that than ours.”

Victor considered that for a moment. The Administrator wasn’t going to tell him everything—but at least he got somewhere. “It’s not going to be easy to reinstate Oswald into power, you know.”

“I am very well aware.”

Victor leaned back. “Your plan’s pretty deceptive,” He said. “I thought the High Table valued honor or something.”

“They do,” The Administrator admitted. “But I wouldn’t be deceiving her. Think of it as a temporary truce.”

Like that was any better.

Victor nodded, sighing. He really wasn’t looking forward to the rest of this. But he had to put up with it, just so he can finally repay his debt and get on with his life.

“You’re sharing an awful lot of your plan.”

“Just the necessities,” The Administrator said. “Wouldn’t want you getting lost now, would we?”

“I guess,” Victor said.

Put up with it.

Seemed a little easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was... a struggle. I’m both happy and unhappy with it, and I keep going back but I’m unsure of what to change. I might go back to edit this—though I doubt that—but I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless! Thanks for everyone who enjoyed the last chapter!


	4. Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed gets unwanted guests. Barbara meets the Administrator.

“You know,” Oswald said, leaning on the doorframe. Water dripped from his coattails, damp plants clinging to his wet, slick skin. “You wouldn’t be so mad at me if you actually stopped to think about what you were doing.”

“I do know what I’m doing,” Ed said, irritated. He turned to look at Oswald, narrowing his eyes at the unwelcome projection. “You’re just being needlessly unpleasant.”

Ed crossed his arms, looking down at his feet as he tapped one of them against the floor repeatedly, brows furrowed as he bit his lip.

“You just killed a bunch of people,” Oswald said. “In a sad, desperate attempt to find your way again. Quite frankly, I don’t think you know what you’re doing, Ed. Seems as if you’re just trying to find a replacement for me.”

“Well, maybe I am.” Ed snapped his head back up, glaring at Oswald. “You were a mentor to me and you took away the one chance I had at happiness! You _betrayed_ me, Oswald! What choice did I have?”

“Talking it out?” Oswald said. “I mean, that’s logically the first course of action. And you’re logical, right? Really, maybe if we didn’t go behind each other’s backs all the time we could’ve worked everything out.”

Ed scoffed. “As if you would’ve talked it out with me. You killed Isabella all because you were scared of talking to me. Because I loved somebody else and you couldn’t handle it.”

“You knew her for a week!” Oswald shot back. “And mind you, Ed, it’s not like she knew you.”

“She could have!”

Oswald stared at him, rolling his eyes. “I guess you’re not going to listen to reason.”

“You’re not being reasonable,” Ed said, walking past Oswald into the hallway. “You’re being obnoxious.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not to mention you smell like river water and algae.”

“And whose fault is that, _Ed_?” Oswald asked, raising a brow. “You’re the one who dumped me in the river.”

Ed didn’t want to vindicate him with a response. He adjusted his tie and made his way across the hall all the way over to the staircase. He had only taken a few steps down when he heard someone speak.

“—I thought we were heading to the Sirens.” It took him a moment, but this voice, Ed could tell, belonged to Victor Zsasz. He hadn’t spent much time with the hitman after Arkham, so he couldn’t be sure exactly, and while he hasn’t exactly been acquainted with Victor outside the assassin’s many hits on the GCPD and threats against the police force, Zsasz had a distinct voice—a low casual drawl. He took another step down slowly, careful not to let the wooden step creak as the toe of his shoe pressed against it, his heel following down soon after. “Why’re we here?”

We?

“He could’ve stopped here,” Another voice said. It was eerily familiar, yet _wrong_ , like a cheap impersonation of someone Ed knew. He couldn’t place where the familiarity came from, and the speaker had a certain lilt to their voice which made it even harder to ascertain why it was so familiar to him. “He was a sentimentalist, wasn’t he? This manor is bound to be home to many pleasant and unpleasant memories for him. If he was here, we may find a clue as to where he is now.”

“People would’ve spotted him come by, though.”

Ed raised a brow at their conversation. Who were they talking about?

“Isn’t it obvious?” Oswald said from behind him. Ed whipped around, turning himself towards Oswald on his heel, the wooden step creaking a bit from the sudden shift. “There’s only one person who’d ever come back here.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ed hissed. “You’re dead.”

The voices from the other room stopped.

“I think there’s someone here,” The awfully familiar yet unfamiliar voice said suddenly.

Ed cursed under his breath.

“Oh shit, really?” Zsasz said.

So much for the element of surprise.

Ed moved slowly, reaching for the gun in his belt. He ignored Oswald’s quips about it, the fake image of his dead best friend mocking how that was the same gun used to kill him. He took careful steps, and at the third to the last step, he jumped down, quickly whirling around and running into the room with his gun out where he heard the voices, ready to shoot, to kill, but—

They were gone.

 

* * *

 

Barbara Kean has always craved for more. She’s never been satisfied, always hungry to sink her teeth into more money, more power. She never understood it before, really. It always just felt like there was something missing, something she never quite got—and it made her life miserably boring, attending ball after ball, event after event, gallery after gallery—it was one big monotonous cycle, and it took driving two people away and the murder of her parents for her to realize that.

Jim made it bearable though, and god was he worth all the boredom, worth the meandering by—but it seemed she wasn’t enough for him. She tried to be enough, she did, and god knows she really tried, but she just wasn’t. Hell, she wasn’t even sure if anyone would be enough for him. Jim had a penchant for drawing in darkness, and it pissed off Barbara to no end that he wouldn’t accept that. Still, it was one of the things that made him so endearing, so worthwhile.

Sometimes, she still misses him.

She took a sip from her glass, the taste of alcohol hitting her tongue as she swallowed it down. The urge to have more was like a rash, something she can scratch but never quite fully get rid off. She needed more. Wanted more. She practically had everything in her hands and _yet_. It felt like it wasn’t enough, like it was never enough.

Tabitha’s voice from the doorframe broke Barbara from her reverie. “Babs.”

Barbara blinked, turning to look at her, irritated. “What?”

“Somebody wants to see you.” There was something in the way she said it that Barbara felt like there was something more to it, but before she could utter another word, Tabitha stepped aside, and Barbara’s eyes widened.

“Holy shit,” Butch said from his seat, standing up.

Victor Zsasz walked in first, moving to the side to allow her visitor to step in. It was hard to figure it out at first, with the the tattoos of birds littering his arms, the neatly styled hair, the piercings—but then she noticed the eyes, pale green and striking, his nose, pointed and hooked, freckles dotting his face—

“ _Oswald_?” Barbara said, incredulous.

“No,” He said, chuckling a bit. “I’m not Oswald.”

Butch scoffed. “Yeah right. And I’m mayor of Gotham.”

The lookalike paced around the room, and Barbara eyed him uneasily, hand reaching for her gun in case. She couldn’t blame Butch for thinking the lookalike was lying, he _was_ the mirror image of Oswald Cobblepot. There was something off though, something Barbara couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Rest assured, Mr. Gilzean, I am _not_ Oswald Cobblepot. For one, I have a pair of functioning legs.”

So that’s what she couldn’t tell.

He was right, though. Unlike Oswald, who seemed to be afflicted with a leg that didn’t allow him to walk properly, the doppelganger walked straight, both of his legs working perfectly fine. Barbara raised a brow.

“Yeah, I can vouch for him,” Zsasz said. “He’s not Penguin. Trust me. No one is as insufferable as this guy.”

The lookalike glared at Zsasz.

“Okay, so if you’re not Oswald,” Barbara said slowly. “Who are you?”

He turned his attention back to Barbara. He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, and Barbara almost thought he wouldn’t reply. His eyes seemed to scrutinize her, not in the way that most guys have, looking at her up and down, maliciousness in their eyes, but the way he looked at her felt different. Almost calculated. Cold.

It made her uncomfortable.

“You may refer to me as the Adminstrator,” He said finally, before turning to inspect the many bottles of alcohol in the bar.

Barbara blinked. “I’m sorry— _what_.”

The Adminstrator turned back to look at her. Tabitha seemed to tense, though Barbara didn’t know why exactly. The look on the Adminstrator’s eyes was cold—and it almost sent a shiver down her spine. But she wasn’t afraid.

“Is something the matter, Ms. Kean?” His voice was even, but it was clear he was testing her, almost daring her to break his patience, but she wouldn’t be intimidated.

“That’s not a _name_ ,” She said.

“Not one a mother would normally name her children, no.”

“Why do you look exactly like Cobblepot?” She asked. “I mean, minus the ink and piercings. It’s... an uncanny resemblance.”

The Administrator licked his lips, smiling. “Ah. I knew you’d ask me that,” He said, smile a little strained, as if even showing this much politeness was a displeasure for him. “We have a relation, of a sort.”

A pause.

Barbara stared at him, expecting him to continue, but nothing. He just continued to look around, and the air was tense. Tabitha looked uncomfortable, Zsasz stoic as always, and Butch ever the face of confusion. It was all a mess. “ _Well_?” She said, impatient.

He turned his head towards her. “Relax, Ms. Kean. I’m simply taking in your fine establishment.”

“I’m gonna have to ask you to get out,” Barbara said.

“You haven’t even heard my offer yet,” The Administrator said. “I’m sure you’d find it as something very valuable to you.”

Butch spoke before she could. “Sorry, _pal_. I doubt there’s anything you could offer us that wouldn’t be anything we don’t already have,” Butch said. “So of you’re some secret twin of Oswald’s looking for revenge, just scram and get lost.”

“Oh,” The Administrator said, smiling wider. It was unsettling, in a way, and almost creepy—it looked _empty_ , the way his eyes stared at Butch, and where Barbara expected to see in those familiar eyes a sparkle of emotion, of passion, rage, excitement, there was nothing. “But this is something you don’t have.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “And what is that?” She asked.

He grinned, setting down something atop the bar counter. It hit the counter with a _clink_ , and he turned away, walking past her and back over to the doorframe.

“Security,” He said, back turned away from Barbara. Tabitha looked even more uncomfortable as he neared her. “But since you’re not interested, I’ll come back another time.” His eyes slid over to Tabitha, doing that same calculated cold assessing look that unnerved Barbara earlier. “I’m sure your friend can explain what I mean.”

And with that, he was gone, Zsasz trailing behind.

Butch spoke first.

“I’m sorry, what the _fuck_ just happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, me again! I wrote this in the middle of the night, and it’s not quite up to par as what I had intended, so I’m not completely happy with this chapter. I kinda wish I wrote Barbara’s section better, but writing with five characters in the same room is difficult as it is, plus she’s kind of in shock too. Anyway, as always thanks for all the support in the past chapter! Really appreciate it. Comments really help motivate me to write, and I’m so glad people enjoy my terrible terrible writing.


	5. Explain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tabitha panics. Barbara makes a call.

“Can you repeat that, but without the vague cryptic bullshit?”

Tabitha pinched the bridge of her nose as she let out an annoyed exhale. Barbara gave her an expectant look, as if saying ‘Well?’, and Tabitha rolled her eyes. After the Administrator (which, by the way, was still kind of a stupid name, and Barbara really didn’t want to use it, but without the option of an alternative, she was stuck with the pretentious nickname that came off as a little self-serving) left, the three had been left, shocked, and the coin that he had left behind did nothing to help.

Barbara had picked it up first, raising a brow as she lifted it up to light. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t anything special, really—just a piece of gold, round and circular, almost perfect as its sheen was not dulled by the scratches and imperfections that Barbara saw as she squinted. There was writing engraved in it, something in Latin, and she frowned. Probably foreign currency, if Barbara were to guess, but there was something with the way Tabitha shifted when she brought it to light that told Barbara it was probably something important.

And it was. Tabitha had gasped and immediately said she recognized it, that it _was_ a form of currency, but she’d only ever seen it a couple of times. Something about a High Table. Tabitha’s explanation was nothing if not annoyingly uncertain, and it irked Barbara a little bit, because this was trying her patience. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the whole mysterious stranger thing, _and_ the fact that he looked exactly like Oswald, and not only that, but why exactly Victor Zsasz was acquainted with him of all people. To add this on top of all that was like frosting on a cupcake.

Just perfect.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” Tabitha said, annoyed. “It’s not my fault if you think I know more.”

“Look, Tabs,” Barbara said. “Not that I’m doubting you or anything, but you gave us jackshit. That was hardly _anything_.”

“Barbara’s right,” Butch said, and both Barbara and Tabitha turned to look at him, different levels of disbelief on their faces. Barbara was surprised, because Butch wasn’t one to agree with her—they usually bickered and Tabitha always had to break them apart.

“Butch!” Tabitha said.

“What?” Butch said. “I just... I find it hard to believe that there’s some criminal organization out there that basically controls the whole world. I mean...” He laughed lightly, almost as if he didn’t want to provoke Tabitha further. “Sounds a little outlandish, if you ask me.”

If she were being honest, Barbara didn’t like the implications of this entire ordeal, because it heavily implies Barbara has no real power. If someone else controlled everything, that meant whatever she had now was _nothing_. She wanted control. And true control, free from whatever Tabitha was saying. Gotham was _hers_ , not some invisible puppeteer’s.

“But it’s _true_ ,” Tabitha insisted.

“I’m not saying it _isn’t_ —“

Tabitha scoffed, turning her head away in irritation.

“—all I’m saying it’s hard to believe.”

“Plus,” Barbara said, picking up the coin again. “We have more important things to worry about. The other crime bosses aren’t exactly my biggest fans, and we have to show them we’re doing this for real and that I’m not leaving my spot.”

“ _You’re_ not leaving your spot?” Tabitha echoed.

“I meant we,” Barbara said, cursing herself for her slip-up.

“Whatever,” Tabitha said, crossing her arms. “We have no idea what that guy wants. If we ignore him for too long he might do something.”

Butch raised a brow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know! Kill all of us? Are we forgetting the fact that he looks exactly like Penguin? For all we know he’s looking for revenge!”

“Tabs, you’re like a one woman army,” Butch said. “And we’ve got enough protection. We’ll be fine.”

Tabitha was on edge. It made Barbara a little concerned, because usually Tabitha was _never_ this frazzled. She was usually cocky, presenting herself as strong, something about the Administrator made her tense. Butch was right, she was sure they could handle this, but knowing Tabitha, she wouldn’t shut up about this until Barbara did something about it. Besides, it was probably better to do something regardless. His appearance notwithstanding, he didn’t seem afraid of them, and he got Victor Zsasz in his pocket, who somehow conveniently fell off the radar after Oswald died. Something about this whole thing didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t quite the pieces of the puzzle together.

Though, she knew someone who might.

Barbara sighed. “Fine,” She said. “I’ll get someone to deal with this.”

Tabitha raised a brow. “Who?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Barbara said, getting up, pocketing the coin and heading over to the door. “You guys deal with the other bosses. I have a call to make.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sorry for showing up on such short notice,” Barbara said, fingers trailing on the wooden table as she walked, looking around the room. Ed didn’t expect many houseguests as of late—ever since the mayor’s disappearance he’s been locked up in the house, making calls to the staff and making sure everything was in order from within the confines of Van Dahl manor, so the entire place was a bit of a mess. Really, if Ed wasn’t so worn out, he would’ve cleaned the manor himself. He’s become a bit of a recluse, and not that he minded that, really. If he had to interact with the idiots that ran Gotham’s city hall in person he might end up tearing his own hair out. Besides, he had his own... personal matters to take care of. That’s part of the reason why the house was so uncared for, if Ed were being truthful. He‘s given the house staff a paid leave so he can deal with his affairs privately. Thankfully, he didn’t pop a pill before Barbara made her call, so his head was quiet and free of any lingering snideness from Oswald. “But I need your help.”

“I was under the impression that once you helped me get revenge you’d let Tabitha and Butch have at me,” Ed said. “Not that I’d blame you, really, after what I did to them. I’m just surprised.”

“Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Barbara said. “But I felt you could still be useful. Tabs is still kinda pissed at me for not letting her kill you, but that’s why I make the decisions, not her.”

Ed chuckled a little at that. “Yes, well, you were always the more clever of the two. Even with her brother, all she did was follow orders, so...” His smile fell, eyes narrowing as he shot Barbara a cold look. “...but I’m not going to be thanking you for ‘sparing’ me any time soon. The hold you have on the pets you call your associates is nothing I’m concerned about, no, I can handle myself fine. Did you expect me to be grateful for that? To bend the knee, kiss the ring?”

“A little, yeah,” Barbara admitted. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Yes, you’re here because you need my help,” Ed said, repeating what Barbara said previously. “If you were hoping your little act of kindness of getting those two on a leash will make it any easier for you to get me to do a favor for you, then you’re wrong.”

Really, he was a little peeved that Barbara had the nerve to ask him for help, considering he owed her nothing, but regardless, he’ll let her say her piece, even if he was going to say no.

Besides, he was a little curious as to what she needed his help in. He only had one thing left to offer now Oswald was gone, and he was sure Barbara could have things handled her way... what did she need?

“I know that,” She said. “But I’m here because I’m sure this might be relevant to you.”

Ed laughed, turning to look at Barbara, disbelief in his face. “What else could you possibly offer me would interest me?”

“Does this look familiar to you?” Barbara asked, taking something from inside her pocket. Ed tensed, an instinct that was drilled into him ever since Arkham and ever since Gordon—you never quite know when someone’s going to betray you and pull a gun out at you. His eyes followed her hand, but all she brought out was what looked to be a golden coin.

He let out a breath of relief. “No,” He said. “It doesn’t. Is that supposed to be important?”

“I’m not sure,” Barbara said, setting it down. “But Tabitha seemed to freak.”

Tabitha. A little paranoid for Ed’s liking, but then again, he was paranoid. Tabitha’s own paranoia was different, though. It didn’t stem from a place of logic, no, it stemmed from human fallibility. She loved too much, a weakness that was something Ed knew but only truly learned as of late. Still, he found her determination admirable. Loyalty was a value Ed could respect, one that he liked to think he was capable of, no matter what Oswald might say to him. It was a shame her loyalty had to be tied to Butch and Barbara of all people, but Ed didn’t expect much from her in regards to who she cared about. He never particularly liked her, anyway. She didn’t like him either, so it was fair.

“I’m not surprised,” Ed said, picking up the coin. “She say why?”

There was nothing special about the coin, if he were being honest. Probably one of those custom made ones the members of Gotham’s gentry liked to have. As a forensics scientist, Ed often saw them when he was on the field, conducting tests and helping out Bullock with the latest murder of which rich socialite was unlucky enough to get shot through the tall imposing glass windows their houses all seemed to have.

“Not very clearly,” Barbara said as Ed adjusted his glasses to get a better look. “But she was worried. Immensely so. Something about a higher order that controls the rest of the world.”

“That’s why you’re here?” He asked, glancing at her. Tabitha, while sporting the fair amount of paranoia any Gotham criminal should possess, hardly seemed to be worried enough for Barbara to get involved. And he never thought Tabitha to believe in conspiracies. A higher order, huh? Interesting... He squinted at the coin in his hands, watching as it glinted under the light.

“Yes,” Barbara said. “You’re good with puzzles. And this, Nygma, is a puzzle that I can’t answer.”

He _was_ good with puzzles. But this was all hearsay. It’d take more than flattery for him to agree.

“ _Ens causa sui_ ,” He read. A lion stood proudly in front of a shield, the suns rays shining behind it, engraved into the coin. “Latin for something generated within itself. And on the other side...” He flipped the coin over. Engraved on the other side was a person holding a shield marked with a cross, a large laurel beneath him. “ _Ex unitae vires_. Out of unity comes strength.”

“What?”

“Says on the coin,” Ed said. “It’s also pure gold, though that was pretty obvious already... Where did you get this?”

Barbara licked her lips, looking away slightly. “Someone stopped by today.”

“Another one of Gotham’s bosses, I’m assuming,” He said, putting the coin back down with a slight _clink_. “Why bother me with these trivialities, Barbara? It’s obviously a gift. Custom, too.”

She moved quickly and grabbed the coin off the desk, looking at Ed with an unpleasant expression. “Because we didn’t know who it was.”

He raised a brow. “You just let someone walk in? Doesn’t seem like you.”

“He was with Victor Zsasz.”

Now _that_ was troubling. He recalls what happened earlier that day. Zsasz’s voice muffled through the walls, someone else’s voice echoing behind, eerily familiar...

“I didn’t think him the type to have a new boss this quick,” Ed said.

“Yeah, me neither, considering _I’m_ in charge. You’d think he’d come over, swear his loyalty, but no dice. The man was a ghost.” Barbara furrowed her brows, looking annoyed. “Until now I suppose.”

“This is interesting and all,” Ed said. “But hardly relevant to me. I have lots of concerns to deal with, Barbara, and Zsasz having a new boss doesn’t exactly scream top of my agenda. You know how unpredictable he is.”

“I thought you loved mysteries,” Barbara said. “This man is an _enigma_.”

“Or maybe new in town,” Ed said. Regardless of his own suspicions, it was always healthy to cast benefit of the doubt on any suspicious activity. Not that he practiced that often. He’d pursue this on his own, of course, trespassing was hardly something he’d let slide, but he wasn’t going to make this any easier for Barbara. “I’m sure you can handle this, Barbara. Now if you’ll excuse me, perhaps you should stop wasting my time.”

Barbara was persistent, a trait that normally Ed would hold her in regard for but right now she just seemed irritating. He turned around to head back into his study, but—

“Ed, that man looked exactly like Oswald,” She spat.

He froze.

And turned around.

The air shifted from mild tension to a cold chill, and he narrowed his eyes at Barbara.

“I hardly think you’re one for jokes,” Ed said, voice icy. “So I ask you this, _are you telling me he’s alive_?”

“I’m saying there’s someone out there with his face and we don’t know his intentions,” Barbara said.

He took a step closer to Barbara. “ _Are you telling me he’s alive_?” He hissed, gritting his teeth. His words were dripping with venom, brows scrunched together as he felt head throb with anger, his lip trembling from the feeling of rage that he had locked away.

Barbara didn’t reply for a moment.

“I don’t know,” She said, looking at him. “But that’s for you to find out, isn’t it?”

“Get out,” He snapped suddenly, standing up straight.

“Nygma—“

“I said get out!” He yelled.

Barbara hesitated but walked out, and Ed felt the tension in the room disappear as she left. He took a deep breath, as he ran a hand across his hair, hand shaky as he reached for his pill box.

This was troubling. _Very_ troubling. He wasn’t sure how to make sense of the rest of it, but Barbara’s words made him uneasy.

A man who looked exactly like Oswald.

The memory of earlier comes to mind. Victor Zsasz. That voice. That familiar voice. That voice he can’t name but knows so well. That voice that sounded _wrong_ , but sounded so alike to someone he’s heard before, like hearing the voice warp from behind radio static. Could it be...?

He was just about to pop open the pill box when he heard the sound of a gun clicking behind him.

“Hey,” Zsasz’s voice greeted. “Boss wants to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter! Kinda struggled with this—to be fair, when do I not struggle with writing—and I’m not sure if I’m content with how I ended it. I argued myself for a bit there, but ultimately I decided that’s the direction I wanted this to go. As always, thanks to everyone who left a comment and kudos!


	6. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rainy evening.

_It was a rainy evening in November._

_The house was quiet, aside from the rumble of thunder from the outside that followed the streaks of lightning that lit up the dark night sky._

_He couldn’t sleep. Not now, not tonight. It wasn’t that he minded the quiet pattering of rain outside. He always focused on the minor details—like the rustling of trees from his window, the skittering of rats from inside the house’s aged walls, the creaking of wood as Mama walked in the halls just outside his door—but that ended up causing him more sleepless nights than he liked to admit. He was a light sleeper, and it didn’t help that he couldn’t fall asleep easy. Sometimes he liked to think that was a trait he inherited from his father, or perhaps his true mother, but he’d never dare voice out these thoughts, as curious as he is. Mama didn’t like it when he asked. So he didn’t._

_Still, though, the noise didn’t help. He tugged his blankets closer to him, turning around and facing away from the window as he scrunched his eyes tight, trying to ignore the loud bang of thunder that succeeded an all too terrifying strike of lightning._

_He couldn’t entirely blame the rain for his sleeplessness. He was already scared of most things, really, and if it wasn’t the incessant barrage of raindrops against the rooftop accompanied by the sounds of thunder there would always be nighttime terrors his mind would conjure, making him see things that weren’t there and leave him paralyzed with fear. He was always imaginative, he knew, and logically while monsters and creatures of the night weren’t real, at hours like these he couldn’t help but feel like they were there, watching him, waiting for him to let his guard down._

_Maybe it was because he knew what monsters looked like. And they were watching him, constantly, even beyond the blanket of night. They didn’t look like the monsters he pictured in his mind, no, they looked like people, eyes narrowed and arms crossed as they waited for him to make a mistake, anything for them to latch onto. Playing the wrong note, finding the wrong sum of numbers, saying something out of line—_

_But despite all that, his lack of sleep wasn’t his biggest concern. He’s gotten by with less._

_What worried him was that tomorrow was examination day, and that terrified him more than creatures and noises that invaded the night._

_It nagged at him—even now, when everything should be kept away and he should be at rest, should have his eyes closed and forget about his troubles until the next day—an unease that he couldn’t repress, couldn’t lock away. It would all turn out okay, he was sure, but he was always the more anxiety ridden of his peers, Alastair the Anxious, they liked to call him._

_He couldn’t shake way the worry, though._

_He knows logically that he’d need the energy for it, but the dread creeping up on him was making it even harder for him to fall asleep._

_Still, he’d try._

_He’d try._

 

* * *

 

Ed had always been one for small talk, but now, sitting in the passenger seat as Victor Zsasz drove, he found himself at a loss for words for once.

It felt a little surreal, if he were being honest. He was trying to wrap his mind around the events of today, from the trespassers earlier that morning, to Barbara Kean’s words—and now Victor Zsasz held a gun to his head. Or at least, that was earlier. Victor had led him to a car, and Ed was too stunned to object, leading to his current predicament.

The shock had died a little, emphasis on _little_ , because as much as this entire ordeal blindsided him he won’t let the surprise paralyze him enough to not think clearly.

Think, Edward. Think.

He was in a situation out of his control, at least for now. While the lack of control was way out of his comfort zone, he’s gone through worse. He doubted anything would beat Arkham (he shuddered, remembering when they locked him up with that cannibal, when he backed himself up against the wall, screaming endlessly and feeling helpless), and whoever Victor’s boss may be, he wants him alive.

He didn’t have his gun, which was just lovely. Zsasz took it out of his hands earlier, so now the gun-wielding maniac not only had one gun, he had _two_. Or one plus however many Zsasz usually had. Ed was sure Victor didn’t keep less than five on his person at all times.

While Victor seemed distracted, focused on the road, he doubted he could beat Zsasz one-on-one, because while he would kill Victor if he had to, he knew he _couldn’t_. He was a murderer, not a professional murderer.

So small talk it was.

“Where are you taking me?” Ed asked, turning to look at Zsasz.

“Told you.”

“Yes, your boss wants to talk to me,” Ed said. “But why?”

It was always good to assess the situation before facing a potential threat. That was one thing he learned from the cops at the GCPD, and something he knew from experience. It made the situation feel a lot less helpless, and it gave him an edge when dealing with would-be captors. And it made him feel a lot less terrified, so that was a plus.

“I think he can tell you himself,” Zsasz said. “If I’m being honest, I don’t really know either. But he wants to talk to you. So, ergo, I have to come fetch you.”

“Couldn’t you have just made a call?”

“Would you have shown up?” Victor asked, glancing at Ed before turning his gaze back on the road. He was right, of course. Ed wouldn’t have even bothered. He hasn’t left the house for anything other than his extracurricular activities as of late. “Besides, the guy tends to be dramatic.”

Ed didn’t know what to say to that. Actually, no, that was a lie, he _did_ , but the first thing that came to his mind was an obvious comparison to Oswald, and he really didn’t want to think about him and what Barbara said right now.

He needed to focus. C’mon Ed, focus. Don’t get distracted.

“Dramatic?”

“He says he does everything practically but honestly he’s so full of shit,” Victor said, and there was something in the way he set his mouth into a thin line, face scrunched in an expression that Ed could tell had a hint of bitterness.

That was useful. He filed that observation away for later.

“I know the feeling,” Ed mumbled in agreement, thinking about Oswald against his better judgment.

Victor glanced at him again, but Ed didn’t notice—he was looking out the window, watching the car as it drove past the manors and houses of Gotham’s elite and into the heart of the city, past the small stores and rundown buildings that probably were there since before Ed or anyone he knew was even born, past the alleyways and nightclubs, until Victor took a left and parked the car in the parking space of a rather prestigious apartment complex.

Victor got out first.

“Come on,” He said, opening Ed’s door for him. Ed got out, and Victor grabbed him by the arm—no need for that, really, Ed was planning on cooperating, and this just felt a little demeaning—and led him inside the building.

For all intents and purposes, the place was _nice_. It was typical of one of the nicer places to live in in Gotham—modern, minimalist—a stark contrast against the more worn down and aged atmosphere of Gotham’s landscape.

“Don’t try anything,” Zsasz said, tone more hushed as he pressed the button for the elevator to go down to their level. Ed noticed something in his tone, though. It wasn’t threatening, like it should be in most cases. It was almost like it was advice. Though it was hard to tell, since Zsasz still had a gun pointed at his back.

When the elevator doors opened, Zsasz pushed him in, using a keycard to allow them access to the top floor. The doors shut in front of them, and Ed couldn’t allow himself to relax. Not for a second. Since Barbara, since this morning, hell, since Oswald’s death, he hasn’t allowed himself even a moment to breathe. It felt like a game of survival to him, every moment like he had to stay alert, stay sharp. And this wasn’t helping.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, as much as he tried to ignore it, he craved another pill, to hear Oswald’s voice. He wanted to hear the snide remarks of his fallen enemy, to hear him snark and give advice and keep him steady. He hated himself for it, obviously. He shouldn’t have to feel this dependent on Oswald, but as much as he hated him, he can’t help but miss Oswald, no matter what he did.

Oswald hurt him.

But Ed missed him so much.

And he hated it.

He hated that Oswald brought him to this point, he hated that Oswald made him so paranoid, so on edge—he wishes that he never met him, he wishes that he could’ve just killed him from the very beginning, wishes that Oswald just let him be _happy_ —

_Ding!_

(Sometimes he wishes he never met Isabella at all.)

The elevator doors opened. He looked towards Zsasz, who put a hand against his back and pushed him forward with the barrel of his gun. Ed stumbled, nearly tripping. The hitman led Ed across the corridor, stopping in front of the door at the far end of the hall. Taking out his keycard with one hand and the gun pressed against Ed’s side with the other, he pressed it against the lock and the door opened with a _click!_.

 

* * *

 

_“Mama,” Alastair said, lip quivering as he placed his fingers on the piano keys._

_“Again,” She hissed, tiny paddle in hand. Even now, as his heart raced, he can’t help but noticed its little details. The tiny engraved letters in the handle, the way its black paint chipped away to reveal the wood underneath._

_The back of his palms were red. His hands stung, and they were bleeding from where Mama nicked them with her paddle._

_She stared at him, eyes narrowed in disappointment. His own eyes sprung with tears, heartbeat pounding against his chest, staring at her with fear._

_“Mama,_ please _, I can’t play anymore—“_

_He hid his face away as she snarled and slapped the keys beside his hands, the impact causing the piano to play disharmoniously, and his heart quickened, bracing himself._

_“I expect more from you,” She said, looking at him as if he was the most shameful thing she ever laid eyes on. And if he were being honest, he might as well be. “You don’t stop playing. Not when your hands bleed, not when your fingers strain—“_

_“Not until the sun sets,” He finished for her in a terrified whisper._

_“I see you know,” She said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Which confuses me because you seem unable to follow the most simplest of rules. Now, again.”_

_He turned to look at her, eyes wide and begging silently. Tears ran across his cheeks, and he opened his mouth to speak—_

_He let out a cry as she hit his hand once more, the paddle tearing his skin and this time, he could’ve sworn he felt something break._

_But it all hurt. It hurt as she hit him again and it hurt as he cried out, and she grew more and more furious as he kept begging her to stop, and he yelled—_

_“Please stop—! I’ll play! Please just stop—“_

_And she did._

_He drew in a shaky breath._

_He repositioned his hands on the keys._

_They ached at the movement, and his blood stained the piano keys, but with Mama’s watchful stare, he knew better than to complain, not when he didn’t want her to strike, and he played._

_His hands were shaky, and he was terrified of getting a note wrong, but he played._

_He played even as she left the room and he played even as he felt his legs cramp from sitting too long and he played even his body ached, begging him to stop._

_Disharmonious tunes filled the air, fingers missing keys and in the haze of the pain he forgot what he was supposed to do next, but he kept going, kept playing, because as terrified as he was, he knew if he couldn’t do this, he wasn’t worth_ anything _._

_So when the day fell to night and Mama walked back in, his fingers strained and body sore, he felt a sick rush of pride as she gave him a pat on a back and a smile (empty though it might have been) and told him that he did well._

_Still, he couldn’t help the resentment bubbling in his chest as he watched her walk away._

 

* * *

 

The first thing he noticed was piano.

The sound of it echoed through the walls, the soft melody trying to lift some of Ed’s unease.

But, really, all it did was make him tense even further.

The sudden shift in mood brought him on edge. It was... unsettling. He was brought here against his will and now it was almost creepy, the way everything here looked so perfect, so unlike Gotham. Even the way the piano was played, it was meticulous, like the player wanted nothing less than perfection. There was none of the rough hints of personality that broke through with every unique character he knew in Gotham, none of that.

And lately he’s learned good things brought nothing but bad. Love, friends, loyalty... and now, music. The sound, though seemingly harmless, made everything seem all the more sinister, this mysterious stranger’s plans veiled under a blanket of nice things and the gentle sway of fingers gliding across piano keys and playing the perfect melody.

The door shut behind him with a click, and Victor stepped away from Ed. With the gun now away from him, Ed allowed himself room to breathe, steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation.

He moved away from Zsasz, looking around.

He walked over to the imposing window that overlooked the city from where he stood. It was high up, so no way to escape from there if things go south. Zsasz was blocking the entrance, and there were no other entry points. Statistically speaking, he was fucked.

“I take it you enjoy the view, Mr. Nygma?”

That voice again. Now though, the mysteriousness that shrouded that voice like a fog was lifted away by Barbara’s explanations, and it was easier to place why it was so familiar.

He turned around, and against the wall was a piano much like his own, and as much as he tried to fight against it, a memory of him and Oswald found itself to surface. He remembers singing, remembers playing, remembers their voices intertwining and blending together so seamlessly that they might as well have been one.

The man wasn’t facing him Instead, Ed only saw his back. Despite this, Ed made a mental note with what he could see.

Tattoos all over the arms (birds, but why?), a vest, a pink dress shirt with the sleeves folded. Hair was neat. Ears pierced.

It was a weird conflict in overall aesthetic that somehow fit.

Still, it betrayed nothing of the man’s intent or personality. Normally, Ed could get a good read based on body language and style, but it was difficult without being face to face.

“I’ve never been one to enjoy views of the city from above,” Ed admitted, though a little guarded. He had to assess the situation after all.

The man chuckled. “Afraid of heights?”

“No, on the contrary, actually,” He allowed himself to say. “I find the idea of having a view overlooking the city a little trivial and quite impractical, if I’m being honest. If you’re looking for luxury, much better to have a house. A mansion, if you will. You’re grounded, far away from people...”

“Mm, I see that’s why you decided to stay at Van Dahl manor, then?”

Now, though, he knew Barbara wasn’t bluffing when she spoke to him—the man’s voice was eerily similar to Oswald’s. Though, like he picked up on earlier, it seemed different. Colder. Almost empty. It was like listening to an impression who didn’t understand what made Oswald _Oswald_. The man’s voice had a certain lilt to it too, Ed noticed, from the way he enunciated his words.

“I guess,” Ed said, not betraying any more information. “You know, if you wanted to talk to me, you could have just stopped by. You didn’t have to deal with the theatrics and had Zsasz wave a gun in my face.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” The man said. “I thought you’d appreciate it. I was under the impression you were a fan of the dramatic.”

“I am, if it doesn’t sacrifice my own position of control,” Ed said, annoyance breaking through.

“Mm,” He said, pulling his fingers away from the piano and turning around. “I expected as much.”

Ed froze.

He already knew this, of course, from Barbara, but still, it was shocking to see it in person. He’d accuse her of lying, that he was alive, that Oswald was just faking, but despite the same features etched the man’s face, from the eyes to the nose to even the jaw, Ed knew they weren’t the same. He could tell. He could tell that as similar as the man was to Oswald, what was most jarring to Edward were the other things, the things that made Oswald who he was weren’t _there_.

Where Ed expected to see a nest of hair gelled in peaks, the man’s hair was styled neatly and combed to the side. Like Ed, he donned a pair of glasses, with a tattoo on his face and several piercings all over. One on the nose, a few on the lips, and on the ears. Oswald would never gotten caught in ink, that much Ed knew.

Oswald was an easy read, at least, to Ed. He always let emotion break through his face, and was never afraid to say what was on his mind, especially if it was being snarky or sarcastic. This man, however, betrayed nothing. It made Ed a little uneasy, and a little frustrated.

“Who are you?”

The man smiled, staring at Ed with those empty eyes, the same eyes that used to stare at Ed with such care and trust that Ed felt sick, because as much as he hated Oswald it felt wrong to look at those eyes and see nothing, even if it wasn’t the same person.

“I suppose considering my uncanny similarities to your former friend I should at least have the decency to introduce myself,” He said, standing up. “You may call me the Administrator.”

A title. That implies power or status. And all things considered, the Administrator didn’t seem like the type to nickname himself.

At Ed’s silence, the Administrator turned around and trailed his fingers on the edge of the piano, looking at it with an almost fond expression.

“Do you know piano, Edward?” He asked. Before Ed could answer, he continued. “As a child I learned how to play. Not for any practical purpose, of course, but to instill diligence and discipline into us. We were taught ‘til our fingers strained, bled, our legs cramped from not being permitted to stand...” He placed his fingers on the piano keys. “My work doesn’t allow me to play, I don’t have much time for leisure I’m afraid, but at times like these when I find myself with far too much time with my thoughts I find the piano to be a welcome escape.”

He did too. And Oswald.

But he wasn’t going to tell this stranger that. Even if he did have Oswald’s face. The memory, as painful as it is to remember, was too intimate, too pure for him to ever let anyone else ruin. It was his moment. Their moment. Just them, before everything fell apart, before politics, before women, before love.

It was just them.

Friends.

Before he could let his emotions show on his face he stared right at the Administrator and set his face into a steely expression, lips set into a frown.

“Why am I here,” He said, keeping his voice steady, though the situation was making him more and more unsettled by the second. “If you’re going to kill me just get on with it.”

The Administrator turned around, a frown on his own face, quiet for a moment as he considered Ed’s words.

“I’ve taken it upon myself to become familiar with those Mr. Cobblepot had been acquainted with,” He said coolly, turning back towards the piano and sliding into the seat. “So don’t be alarmed, Mr. Nygma—regardless of what you have done, I have no intentions of harming you.”

“Why?” That made no sense. “Why go through all this trouble, just to get to know me?”

“I don’t put much stock in petty acts of revenge,” The Administrator said, and there was a shift in his voice, and the room seemed to grow colder—almost as if he was offended Ed even hinted at the idea of revenge. “It seems pointless, driven by human emotion. No, feelings of familial closeness and intimacy are not ones I tend to let myself become distracted with. They can make people... fallible. And believe me when I say this, Mr. Nygma, that anger and vengeance can very well ruin the very foundations of our society.”

That was...

Almost insulting. The way he worded it made Edward seethe. Like he was mocking Ed, mocking Ed’s own revenge, and while Ed was logical, the one thing that has been driving him has been anger, discontent at the world, at the world who has treated him so unfairly that he realized it was all just some sick game, a twisted puzzle that he finally saw for what it was. For the Administrator to even say revenge was _petty_ was insulting. It made him sick.

Oswald would never...!

“Are you telling me you’re ‘better’ than me? Is that was this is?” He said, keeping his voice flat, barely concealing his growing anger.

“No,” The Administrator said, smiling. “The truth is, Mr. Nygma, I want information.”

“And you expect me to give this to you?” Ed said, glaring at him. “I don’t even know what it is you want. But I sure as hell am not giving it to you.”

The Administrator’s smile didn’t waver, but it seemed to strain. “It would be an unfortunate setback if you didn’t cooperate, Mr. Nygma.”

“So what, you’re going to torture me, that it?”

“I have other means of getting what I want,” The Administrator said. “Though significantly unpleasant. Edward—“ Ed didn’t miss the change from Mr. Nygma to Edward—he was lulling him in a false sense of familiarity. “—all I want is information.”

“On what?” Ed snapped. “You haven’t said.”

“Oswald,” The Administrator said. “Tell me about him and I’ll let you go.”

Huh.

Not that he was surprised, considering Oswald seemed to be the core of this whole scenario but he expected more. Something more violent. Not... curiosity.

“Why do people think giving me my life will grant them any special favors?” Ed muttered to himself. “They’re the ones threatening me in the first place.”

He looked back up at the Administrator. “I’ll tell you about him if you tell me why.”

The Administrator looked at him for a second. “Alright,” He said. “I’m his brother.”

Ed smirked. Finally. Something useful. “Thought so.”

It didn’t escape his notice the way Victor’s expression changed at the Administrator’s admission.

“Though I thought that was obvious already,” The Administrator said.

Ed chuckled. “This is Gotham. You’d be surprised.”

“So I’ve heard,” He said.

He didn’t seem to be lying, that much Ed knew. It seemed to be the likely scenario, though it was a wonder that Oswald didn’t know he had a brother out there somewhere.

He’d have to figure that out somehow.

Ed sat down on the couch, letting himself relax into the cushions.

If he played his cards right, he’d figure out more about this mysterious Administrator’s intentions.

What part Zsasz had to play in all of this, why he was so curious about Oswald... like he said, he wasn’t one for familial intimacy. So why was he so curious about Oswald? Especially since he was dead? And most importantly, who was the Administrator?

Questions questions... every answer he’s gotten today just led to more and more questions.

But if there was one thing Edward was good at, it was answering mysteries.

Barbara was right.

He was going to find this interesting.

He let himself smile.

“So, what do you want to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kinda sucks (wow, when does it ever not?) and honestly it’s kinda late so I’m going to go back at this later and see what needs changing, but before I completely just delete this draft I’m posting this. It’s a bit long, and honestly it was going to be longer, but I decided against it. Sorry for the wait again—I tend to put this off for a while even if I really do want to write it. I have a problem with procrastination. Once again, thanks for reading!


	7. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adjudicator is busy. Victor listens to Ed and the Administrator talk.

If there was one thing they took pride in, it was that they were excellent at their work.

Not that was anything special for those working under the High Table. Efficiency was one of the many traits that they took pride in, and it was something that the High Table valued in every single one of their members. The High Table cherished that efficiency and quality in work, and it was one of the things that kept the world from falling into anarchy.

It was something the Adjudicator noticed. In those other spots of the world, those areas that not even the High Table would bother taking hold of, the Adjudicator noticed the chaos they fell into without a set of rules to follow. While it was common amongst common criminals who lay unaware of the Table’s existence, it was more prominent in places outside the High Table’s reach.

Like Gotham, for instance. In the limited time they’ve spent in Gotham’s streets already they saw the difference—no rules, no laws, there was nothing stopping each crook, each thief, from shooting each other in the backs and stealing territory. It was all... archaic. Almost feral, in their opinion, the way there was nothing holding them back.

It revealed something about human nature.

That’s why they were grateful for the order the High Table put in the world, keeping criminals in check. After all, humans were prone to the most animalistic of impulses—murder, robbery, sex. Without the Table’s carefully placed system, everything would fall into chaos.

That was one of the reasons why the Table valued efficiency. Loyalty. Without these they were no better than wild animals. And it was an excellent system—abide by the Table’s rules and receive a surplus of benefits, or don’t, and risk your life attempting to thrive in an environment where no one cared about honor or code. The Table ruled over with an iron fist, and every offender of their strict laws punished with a bullet through the skull.

And it worked.

At least, until John Wick went on a rampage.

The Adjudicator pursed their lips at that thought. It had happened only recently and drove the Table into a frenzy. After all, this was no common offender who they can cut off easily or have killed with no questions asked—this was John Wick. And no matter how much they can try to have him killed, it seems like the Baba Yaga only emerges from the ashes ever stronger.

And even now, that was why the Adjudicator was here now, waiting for the Court to finish their meeting. As much as Winston will try to convince them that John Wick was finished, the Adjudicator knew that the Manager held some sort of fondness for the man. They weren’t stupid; Winston was obviously biding his time. And he’s already got one infraction on his belt. But there was no evidence to suspect Winston of betrayal, other than the obvious insolence he showed at trying to stand up against them, and as futile as it may have been, it definitely brought the Table concern. Because before, the deserters were just low-ranking assassins, or members of the Administration looking for a way out, but now it was worse—a manager, and the manager of the New York Continental no less, and the world’s most feared assassin.

It was worrying. Because of their reputation, their status—who knows who else would follow?

They sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. It was one of the reasons why they were here now, in Gotham, after decades of the Table leaving the Court of Owls (and the League of Shadows, the Adjudicator believed. The information on that organization was... lacking. They weren’t exactly sure what that meant, whether it means the Table didn’t know much about them or the Table simply hid most facts about them from most, but regardless, it was something that concerned them.) control of the city in their behalf. The High Table was trying to gain control of territories they once looked past, because if John Wick was still out there, he could run to these places for refuge. Turn them against the Table. But that wasn’t the only reason why.

Lately, the High Table suspected the Court of betrayal. The Table has insiders, people they’ve planted in the city long ago, and they whispered of plans, plans to leave Gotham in ruins, and the Table couldn’t have that.

Of course, the Table had sent the Administrator, sending him on a “leave” in order to control Gotham for them. They tasked a temporary subsitute to take his place. They sent the Adjudicator as well, in order to ensure the Administrator does his task as he should.

It was all a mess, if they were being honest, but when the High Table entrusted the Adjudicator a task, they would damn well make sure they do it to the best of their ability.

The Adjudicator waited, the wooden doors that stood in front of them revealing nothing of the conversations and whispers that lay behind it. A Talon stood beside the door, his eyes trained on the Adjudicator, unblinking.

The Adjudicator didn’t pay him any mind, waiting as the doors opened and Owls filed out, all glancing at one another and at the Adjudicator, whispering amongst themselves as they left.

Kathryn stood at the end of the table, watching as the Adjudicator slipped inside the room.

“I have come to understand that the Table left Gotham alone for the most part,” Kathryn said as the Adjudicator approached. “We’ve had many years without the High Table’s interference. I assumed we did our part well.”

“Things have changed,” The Adjudicator said. “The Table needs to reassert their control over the world and several members have been tasked to acquire certain territories and cities for them.”

“And you’re one of them?” Kathryn asked. “I was under the impression that Gotham was for the Owls to take care of. That was the agreement.”

The Adjudicator shook their head. “Not unless Gotham was destroyed.”

Kathryn raised a brow, eyes calculating and staring right into the Adjudicator. They knew what she was thinking—that the Table was suspecting the Court of schemes and plans, and the Adjudicator would be upfront with that.

“The Table suspects several members of the Court of Owls to be planning something in regards to the city,” The Adjudicator said. “And this intervenes with their own plans for Gotham.”

“Which is?”

“Confidential,” The Adjudicator said simply. Kathryn’s lips were pursed into a narrow line, and the Adjudicator could sense her patience was wearing thin. “But this is simply a visit for formalities sake. I’m only here to tell you that if the Court of Owls _were_ planning something along the lines of the city’s destruction, the Table would punish the Court accordingly.”

Kathryn stared at the Adjudicator, and they stared back.

It was a threat, of course, and Kathryn knew it.

The Court would fall, and with it, Gotham would be saved.

 

* * *

 

_Alastair picked at his food, biting his lip as he waited for the clock to strike 7. It was an uneasy time for him, waiting for the clock to tick by, each second and minute agonizing as he waited for Mama to come down for another lesson. His sister—he used the word lightly, of course, as they were hardly siblings, not in the conventional sense, he tended to see her as more of a peer, like a classmate—was relentless, frowning at him and leaning closer for her face to be practically pressed against his cheek._

_“Come on, ‘Stair!” Brianna said, tugging at his sleeve. “She’s not gonna come down ‘til 9.”_

_Alastair turned to look at her, brows furrowed. “What if she catches us, Bri?”_

_Brianna made a sound with her mouth, like air blowing through her teeth. “Pff, we’ve got more than two hours. You’re such a worrywart sometimes.”_

_He sighed, pushing his seat back and hopping off. “Fine.”_

_She grinned. “You’re gonna love this.”_

 

* * *

 

The questions were simple. Things about Oswald’s childhood, who he was, where he came from... most were questions Victor could easily answer himself, because he’s technically known Cobblepot for much longer than Nygma has. But unlike Nygma, Zsasz and Penguin were never really close, aside from their more easygoing rapport than Victor has ever had with Falcone.

Knowing the Administrator, the questions were simply testing the waters, assessing what Nygma would and wouldn’t give. He watched them go back and forth, making small talk, and it was clear to him that to the two, this was a game of wits, both sides of the conversation knowing they weren’t given the full picture but choosing their words carefully as to remain whatever edge they had agains the other.

The first few answers were about Oswald’s family, and Ed had explained Gertrud, Elijah Van Dahl—their tragic love affair that caused in the conception of Oswald Cobblepot and apparently, the Administrator. Ed had remarked that he found it strange Oswald never brought up his twin, if he even knew about him, but the Administrator dodged that question amazingly. The next few were more that Victor was familiar with—how Oswald came into power.

“Of course,” Ed continued, the Administrator sitting opposite of him, nursing his own cup of coffee. “His grip on Gotham’s underground didn’t hold long, with Theo Galavan in the city. He held Gertrud captive, you see, to keep Oswald in line.”

Victor eyed the Administrator carefully, but there was nothing in those eyes that said he was even bothered that his mother was kidnapped.

It seemed like Nygma was observing him too, because it took him a second before he continued. “It was around this time me and Oswald met. At some point, Oswald found his mother and she was unfortunately killed. He found himself with injuries and I just so happened to be in the woods where he found refuge in. It was very fortunate that I found him—if anyone else had he might’ve ended up dead.” Ed frowned at that, eyes seeming to disappear off somewhere else, his brows furrowed and expression lost. “Though things might’ve been much better if he had.”

“Galavan took control, I’m aware,” The Administrator said. “But Oswald managed to regain power.”

Ed nodded, snapping back to reality. “Yes... James Gordon helped Oswald with the mayor’s untimely death, but this led to Oswald’s imprisonment in Arkham.”

“All of this I can read about,” The Administrator mused. “But I want your take on it, Ed. The answers you’ve been giving me are very calculated, things that haven’t shown much of your own perception. I’ve only been having glimpses into his life—I want to know what he was _like_ , not who he was.”

Ed blinked. “...why?”

“Can’t a man want to learn more about his brother?”

Nygma fell silent, eyeing the Administrator with distrust. Victor knew why—the Administrator hasn’t exactly been shy about his opinions on family and close relationships.

“You said you didn’t care about family.”

“I said I didn’t find much value in familial relationships,” The Administrator said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about my brother, Mr. Nygma.”

“Then why not kill me? I killed him. It’s a fair trade.”

“Because,” The Administrator said, sighing. “I only regret not knowing him in life, Edward—“ Victor didn’t miss how Ed’s eyes narrowed. “—not that you killed him. I want to know who he was, not seek revenge for somebody I never knew. And you knew him, more than anyone else. Is it so wrong to want to know about my brother from you, his best friend, not his killer?”

His voice seemed so genuine that even Nygma faltered.

To any other person, they wouldn’t of have noticed. Nygma wouldn’t have, as smart as he is.

But Victor did.

He knows him—knows how careful the Administrator is with his words, how he lives his whole life without a shred of truth in his body. How empty he is, exactly _how_ barren the Administrator was.

The Administrator is a broken man and Victor never knew how to fix that.

 

* * *

 

_She led him to the attic. Mama never let them go up, mostly because of rats and how rundown the place was. The wood was rotting, every inch of it was covered in cobwebs, but even as Alastair wrinkled his nose at the sight Brianna didn’t let up, a grin still on her face as she led him inside._

_A bunch of blankets were propped up by chests and crates. A makeshift fort, he thinks, eyes adjusting to the bright light than came from within. Brianna led him inside._

_“Hey guys!” She said._

_Francis was sitting on top of an old, rather musty pillow, looking up from his book at her greeting. He groaned. “You brought him?”_

_She crossed her arms. “Like it or not, Francis, he’s still your brother.”_

_“Only technically,” He said, putting his book down. “Ma’s never actually treated us like her_ children _.”_

_Beside him, Violet was tinkering with a piece of metal. She was always like that, not minding anyone else’s business. Alastair was pretty sure Francis had a thing for her, which he really didn’t want to think about, considering the moral dilemma that it brought Alastair to. They were siblings, though not by blood, and that still made it a little taboo for Alastair, but Francis kept ranting on and on how they weren’t actually raised as siblings, more like lab rats that Mama liked to experiment with to see how long she can get them to do things before they break._

_Even now, Francis was looking at Violet, eyes intent on her red hair and awfully pale skin. She didn’t seem to notice him. It was a weird situation that Alastair would rather not get involved in, and neither did Brianna, apparently._

_“Oh shut up, Francis, she’s still our mom,” Brianna said, crossing her arms and huffing._

_“I like to think of her as my mom,” Alastair muttered, but Francis paid him no mind._

_“Well, I know who_ my _mom is,” Francis said, grinning in pride. Alastair looked up from where he was staring at his feet, intrigued. “And my dad too! They’re both lawyers, or at least were, before they were found dead at their firm. Dennis and Amy King—pretty cool, right?”_

_Brianna raised a brow. “You found out about your parents?”_

_“I did,” Francis said. “When four-eyes over there was taking his examination. By the way, what’d she make you do?”_

_Alastair flushed at the sudden attention. “Oh, um, piano.”_

_“Lucky,” Francis said. “I don’t know why she’s giving you all the lame stuff. Maybe it’s cuz you’re her favorite.”_

_“Am not!” Alastair said. “A-and piano isn’t lame.”_

_Francis rolled his eyes. “She hasn’t even taught you weapons yet. I’d kill to be able to play violin again. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want you dead, so... super lame lessons.”_

_“C’mon Francis,” Brianna huffed. “Leave ‘Stair alone. He has his own pace when it comes to lessons! I’m sure he’ll catch up to us in no time.”_

_“Or,” Francis said. “Maybe it’s cuz you’re not as good as the rest of us.”_

_Alastair froze. “I’m just as good as the rest of you,” He said quietly, looking down at his feet._

_“Francis!” Brianna said._

_“It’s not an insult,” Francis said. “I’m just saying. We haven’t seen what anxious lil Alastair can do, have we? Maybe Mother dear knows he’s not as good, so she’s giving him the easy stuff so he doesn’t feel sorry for himself.”_

_Brianna crossed her arms. “Or maybe she wants to teach him differently.”_

_“Fran’s got a point,” Violet said, looking up from where she was playing with her piece of metal. “And honestly... you’re kinda lucky, Alastair.”_

_Alastair didn’t look up._

_Francis’ words echoed in his mind. Wasn’t good enough. Was he the weak link? Was that why Mama was extra hard on him, because she knew he’d never amount to what she wanted him to be?_

_He looked away, biting his lip._

_Maybe he was right._

_Or... maybe._

_Maybe Alastair could prove him wrong._

_Prove them all wrong._

_Prove that he wasn’t some weakling, some frail_ coward _who couldn’t fend for himself, prove that he wasn’t the odd one out—god._

_Not good enough._

_Maybe he really wasn’t good enough._

_He didn’t even realize he was clenching his fists when Brianna touched him and he looked up to stare at her in the eyes._

_“You okay?” She asked._

_“Y-yeah,” He mumbled, letting his hands relax._

_“It’s 7:30,” She said. “We should get outta here.”_

_“S-sure.”_

 

* * *

 

The Administrator was putting away the empty cups by the time Victor had returned. Zsasz had driven Ed back to the manor after the two had their lengthy conversation, and if anything Victor was just tired.

But. He still had one thing to ask.

“Victor,” The Administrator said, looking up. “You’re back.”

“You told him you were Oswald’s brother,” Victor said, trying to keep his voice flat.

The Administrator raised a brow. “Yes, that is true.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

The Administrator looked at Victor for a second, and the look on his face was scrutinizing, as if trying to assess where the sudden interest came from. “You know from when I invoked this marker that I wasn’t going to tell you everything, despite our partnership. I doubt it’s hardly any of your concern—“

“—except it _is_ ,” Victor said, sounding more bitter than he intended. “Not as partners, though that’s pretty fuckin’ important too, because I’d rather not be taken aback like that, but like—“ Victor sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You show up after how many years, invoke the stupid marker, then what, I find out you’re Oswald’s brother and it wasn’t even to me directly, but to Ed Nygma of all people—god—“

Victor palmed his face, dragging his hand down his face before he looked back at the Administrator.

The Administrator just stared at him.

He really hated that look on his face.

“What, do you really have nothing to say?” Victor said, looking at him incredulously.

“I...” The Administrator began. “Understand that you are hurt, but—“

“Can you just cut the stupid High Table speech type bullshit and talk to me like a normal human being?” Victor cut off. “Blah blah you have your reasons but this is just ridiculous.”

Victor sighed and they stood there in silence, the Administrator unsure what to say.

For once, the Administrator was at a loss for words. Or at least, Victor hoped so.

He couldn’t read him anymore. He hasn’t been able to for a long time.

He raised up his hands in frustration. “Fine, whatever, it’s stupid, I’ll just shut up and forget about it.”

“It’s not,” The Administrator said suddenly, looking up at him. And Victor looked back at him, unsure whether the tone in his voice was genuine, but the way he sounded was... regretful.

It was the most he’d heard from him in years.

“It’s not stupid,” The Administrator repeated, more determined this time, at least, Victor liked to think he sounded that way. Maybe he was just imagining what he wanted to hear.

Victor didn’t say a word as the Administrator bit his lip and avoided Victor’s gaze.

“...I’m sorry.”

Victor didn’t know what to say to that.

He didn’t even know if the Administrator really was sorry.

“I’m going home,” Victor said, turning around. “See ya in the morning, A.”

He turned and left, and he didn’t have to look to see Alastair left alone in the dark of the penthouse with only the city lights to light the room and the apartment door slamming shut in front of his face.

 

* * *

 

_Alastair was twelve years old when his mother first taught him how to use a gun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, another glimpse into the Administrator’s life! Sorry if it isn’t as descriptive as it could’ve been—I really kinda wanted to add more but I wasn’t sure where and I feel like if I put this off more I’d hate myself because I haven’t updated in a couple days. Anyway, here’s to hoping I didn’t completely butcher this chapter as I usually do! (Sorry it’s really hard for me to enjoy my writing, but I’m getting there.)


	8. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk with no secrets (or at least, secrets that matter at that moment.)

The Administrator had been swirling red wine in his glass when Victor walked in. The last few days haven’t been nearly as eventful as the first few days of this whole mess. While Victor wasn’t complaining, he just thought that everything going on recently was just a lot of sitting around and not a lot of action. If he was being forced to go along whatever plan the Administrator had, he might as well have gotten a few new sick scars to sport for this whole thing to seem worth it. Unfortunately, given the Administrator’s knack for leaving Victor in the dark, it seems most of the plan right now was just letting the number one hitman in Gotham sit on his ass and do nothing.

“Ah, Victor,” The Administrator said, looking up. “You’re back.”

“Yep,” Victor said, strolling across the apartment and taking off his gloves. Lately, he’s been passing by more and more, and while the Administrator didn’t outright ask for his presence on a number of those visits, Victor found it upon himself to stop by anyway, because it’s not like the Administrator was complaining anyhow. 

The two of them didn’t talk about what happened. Not that Victor wanted to, really, it would’ve opened up a pandora’s box of repressed emotional regrets that he would rather forget, and it seemed that the Administrator didn’t want to talk either, considering he went back to being Mr. I’m So Cool And Calculating the next time Victor stopped by. 

But it was clear there was still some unease there, Victor could tell. The Administrator was choosing his words, not because he was trying to hide things—though Victor was sure he still was—but mostly because he was unsure what would set Victor off. It was a little awkward, if Victor were being honest, and he just kind of wanted some of the tension to relieve. 

Victor set his gloves down on the glass living room table. His visits had been frequent enough that Zsasz could allow himself to get comfortable. “Still no Barbara?”

“She’ll come around,” The Administrator said. “Nygma’s got my address. If she wants to take me up on my offer then she’ll drop by, hear me out.”

Victor looked up at the Administrator. The Administrator took a sip of his wine, looking out the window.

“I guess that’s why you spoke to Nygma, then? So he knows where you are, tell her about it?”

Kinda bullshit, if you asked Victor, because knowing him, there was no way that the Administrator thought this all through. 

Or maybe he did, and Zsasz just didn’t know him that well.

“One of the reasons, yes,” The Administrator admitted, eyeing Victor from the edge of his vision. Another thing Victor noticed—the Administrator was being more honest than he was before. He still kept things from Zsasz, though that was a given, but Victor noticed the Administrator giving him more than what was needed, eyeing Zsasz carefully as he spoke. 

“And to get an outsider’s look on Oswald,” Victor said. “Aside from me, obviously.”

“Yes,” The Administrator nodded. “But... if I’m being honest, I was curious.”

Victor shot the Administrator a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

The Administrator didn’t talk for a while, instead staring at the scarlet liquid as it stilled. His brows were scrunched up and lips set into a frown, eyes looking lost as Victor tried to figure out what was going in that head of his.

Of course, Victor never would be able to.

The man was, for the lack of a better term, an enigma. (Some part of him thought of Ed Nygma and connected the dots—Ed Nygma. E. Nygma. Enigma. How original.) The Administrator was hard to read, whether he was being genuine, being calculating, or trying to play you as another piece in this whole puzzle. Victor knew that he was just another pawn here, another step to getting Gotham’s crown, but here now, with an all too familiar look on the Administrator’s face, Victor couldn’t figure out where he and the Administrator stood, after all these years. The Administrator bit his lip, clearly trying to put his words together.

It reminded him of a few days ago, when the Administrator apologized, the way his eyes looked—they weren’t empty, weren’t dead, dull—just _lost_. 

“I guess I wanted to know more about him,” The Administrator said finally, his words quiet. “Who the man who killed my brother is.”

Victor didn’t say anything, instead nodding and looking out the window as well. 

“He could be valuable later on,” The Administrator added quickly. “I was assessing him. Personality wise, I mean. To figure out...”

Victor turned his head and looked at the Administrator. “A, it’s fine. It’s just us. You can cut the bullshit and talk like a normal person.”

The Administrator looked at him, brows furrowed. There was uncertainty in his face, and Victor sighed.

“I’m talking fine,” The Administrator said, looking back down at his wine.

It reminded him a little of when they were younger, but Victor shook that thought away. 

That was in the past. They were here now, and the past was long gone now that it didn’t matter. 

“I know you’re not going to get in touch with whatever emotions you’ve got left under layers and layers of whatever bullshit the High Table constantly tells you,” Victor said. He expected the Administrator to cut in, tell him he was wrong, but the Administrator was quiet. “But...”

“But what?” The Administrator asked, looking up and glancing at him.

“It wouldn’t do you any wrong to let yourself have some fun,” Victor said, looking back at the Administrator. “I mean, look at me. I always have fun on the job.”

“But that’s you,” The Administrator said, almost sounding irritated. “And it’s not like I don’t enjoy my work.”

“I meant enjoy the little things, A,” Victor said. “Like, instead of sitting around here waiting all day and only havin’ me for company, you could, I dunno, head out.”

“For what?”

“Fun,” Victor said, shrugging. “For me when I have nothing to I go out with the girls, usually to clubs and stuff. Not everything’s about work, A.”

Really, Victor didn’t think the Administrator would take his advice. Other than the glimpses of possible humanity within the Administrator that Victor caught, the guy was still probably boring as fuck, and as of now he had no personality other than seeming Mysterious and Ominous As Hell. 

The Administrator didn’t talk for a while before downing the rest of his glass and setting it down on the living room table. 

“Alright,” The Administrator said suddenly, and Victor blinked. 

“Alright what?” Victor asked, watching as the Administrator took his vest and donned it, hands working to fasten the first button. 

“I’m going out,” The Administrator said simply, fixing his hair with a hand, making sure no strand was out of place. “Though I’m not the biggest fan of clubbing. I tend to find the noise... distracting. But you’re right, I stay cooped up in this apartment for too long. I’ll head out to the library—care to join me, Victor?”

He looked at Victor, and the lost look in his eyes was gone—back was the coolness, dullness, but there was something else, something _familiar_.

Victor just laughed, rolling his eyes.

“Not like I have a choice, do I?”

The Administrator smiled, and Victor wasn’t sure if it was entirely fake, but even just a hint of something genuine was good enough for him. “No, I suppose not, Victor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this quickly today (and it’s kind of messy) and I was a little too tired to get into the more plot heavy stuff, so have a lil of this! I hope I wasn’t too obvious about certain things, and honestly I’m still trying to figure out how to write Zsasz (we’re 8 chapters into this and I still can’t write Victor that’s so tragic) so don’t be mean. As always!! Thanks to those who read and comment and leave a kudos!!! It’s very much appreciated <3


	9. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They speak in hushed tones at the library.

 

The Administrator’s nose was buried in a book. Victor sat in front of him, laying his head in his hands, an expression of boredom clear on his face. The tick tocking of the clock above them wasn’t helping, either—it just made time seem like it was slower than it should be.

“This is boring,” Victor whispered, glancing at the old woman who stood by the desk, shushing anyone who spoke above a single decibel. He looked back at the Administrator, looking at the title of the book he was currently engrossed in. _Sincerity_ by A. Fidell.

Victor found that funny. And a little ironic.

The Administrator turned a page, not bothering to look up at Victor. “You’re the one who told me to have some fun.”

“I didn’t mean—“ He started a little too loudly, before quickly turning his head towards the librarian to see if she noticed. He turned back to the Administrator. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I didn’t mean spending the past three hours reading a book while making me watch you read.”

The Administrator looked up at that, lips quirked up into a smile. “I asked if you wanted to come. I didn’t make you.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “C’mon, we both know I didn’t have a choice. With you waving that marker around can I honestly really do anything?”

The Administrator chuckled at that. “You know, you actually can,” He said. “My request doesn’t keep you from enjoying what you want to enjoy. I know you love disco, so why not head out? I’ll be fine here on my own. I’ve got myself and—“ He put down his book, patting the pile of books he had set up beside him. “—my books.”

“You could get killed,” Victor said.

“Which wouldn’t entirely disadvantage you,” The Administrator pointed out, amused smirk on his lips. “If I’m dead, then that means the marker is void. I never explicitly told you to protect me.”

God, Victor hated that he was right. The Administrator was cooped up in the apartment most of the time, so even if Zsasz wanted him dead, it’s not like he could try—that building was the only place in all of Gotham were he couldn’t kill. It was High Table territory, and while it wasn’t exactly Continental, it was still consecrated grounds. An unknowing criminal might accidentally break these rules, but an assassin who knows the ways of the High Table had no excuse if they were to conduct business on the apartment grounds.

But that wasn’t really why Victor hadn’t thought of the Administrator’s point. It was something they both knew.

They both knew Victor would never find it in him to kill him, no matter what.

He frowned, glaring at the Administrator. “Stop playing with me,” He said. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“Even if I would without blinking an eye?” The Administrator asked, quirking up a brow inquisitively.

Victor knew he would.

The Administrator was cold, heartless—just like any other pawn that was free to be controlled by those seated on the High Table.

If they asked him, he’d kill Victor in a heartbeat and still have time for afternoon tea.

“Yes,” Victor said. “And that’s why we’re different.”

“Because you hold sentimentality over things that don’t matter?” The Administrator said, and while his tone was amused, his eyes looked as dead as ever, lacking the spark that he saw before.

“I’m not sentimental,” Victor said. “We’re different because while I’m a stone cold motherfucker who can kill you without a second thought, I actually have respect for people and don’t just see them as pieces in a game, _Alastair_.”

The Administrator froze, his smile falling.

“Don’t call me that.”

The air felt like it stilled, the temperature like it had suddenly dropped and Victor felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Why not?” Victor said. “It’s your name.”

The Administrator was calm, his voice steady, but Victor knew the ice in those eyes had cracked.

“Don’t forget, _Victor_ ,” He said, leaning forward as he stared down at Victor coldly. “That if I thought you no longer mattered and had a purpose to my mission I wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in your brain.”

“Oh really? I’d like to see you try,” Victor said, narrowing his own eyes, not moving away.

“Believe me, I would love wiping that smile off your face,” The Administrator hissed in a low whisper. He moved away, leaning back on his chair. “But I need you right now, so I won’t.”

Victor didn’t respond as the Administrator picked up his book and flipped open the paged to read where he left off.

Once again, they were silent, the clock ticking as the minutes go by, the Administrator turning a page every so often, and Victor watching him without a word.

The air was tense again.

 

* * *

 

_He had been led to bed, the man’s eyes looking him up and down and he felt a chill run across his back as he joined him, terror in every inch of his body._

_Deep breaths. He could do this._

_“Take off your shirt,” The man said._

_He nodded, shakily unbuttoning the first button on his suit jacket, hands trembling as they did so._

_He had only gotten the second one off when the man made an irritated noise and muttered, “Hurry up.”_

_He took a shaky breath and slipped off his jacket._

_Then it all happened in a blur._

_The sound of fireworks popping in the night sky in a dull haze of smoke and bright neon lights popping above them covered the sound of the gunshot. The man’s head lolled down from where it had hit the bed frame from the bullet’s impact. The blood spattered all over the white pillows, the red tainting the almost pure and pristine sheets making him want to vomit._

_It was almost terrifying how easy it was for him to pull the trigger. The act itself felt like nothing—he just felt cold, sinisterly cold, as if something inside him shut off when he took out the gun hidden from under his clothes, as if something shut off as he clicked off the gun’s safety and made the shot, the bullet shooting clean through the man’s head._

_But once he realized what he’d done, he shook, lip quivering as he realized oh no no nonono—_

_The gun had fallen out from under his hands, hitting the ground with a silent_ clink! _, but if he had noticed, he didn’t show it._

_He was 13 when he killed a man on New Year’s Eve._

 

* * *

 

Barbara wasn’t sure what her next move would be.

Nygma’s information had been useful, but she didn’t know what to _do_ with it. She couldn’t find anything to use against the Administrator, there was nothing other than the obvious fact that Oswald was central to all of this.

_Duh._

The Administrator was the splitting image of Oswald—he was Oswald’s _twin brother_ , for crying out loud. Nygma told her he would look into that more, but she already had, and no dice. No evidence Gertrud Kapelput even had another son, which was odd—while there was the possibility that she gave her son away, it seemed almost impossible she had the means to erase all the evidence to his existence.

It was all very frustrating.

This time, though, she was alone in the bar, drinking her martini without the constant presence of Tabitha and Butch. The two were out having some alone time, though Barbara was sure they were out trash talking her. The two were never really subtle, but she let them be, for the most part—better they let off steam than try to kill her.

There was a knock on the door and she sighed, standing up and opening it.

“Uh... who are you?” She asked, raising a brow at who entered.

They turned around. “I am the Adjudicator.”

Great. Another one of these assholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is short again! It’s been hard trying to find time to write the longer chapters, but I realized if I tried inserting all of what I had planned it would be too long, so I decided to just leave it off here for a quicker update, because last chapter doesn’t quite fit back into the plot. Next update should be longer, though, unless plans change again—but thank you all for all dealing with my inconsistent chapter lengths and terrible update schedule.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	10. In Contrast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor makes some comparisons.

The Adjudicator was every bit as cryptic as the Administrator, but not for the same reasons.

Where the Administrator was purposefully vague, eyes sliding over to Barbara with a calculative gaze, the Adjudicator was straightforward, professional.

“What exactly are you supposed to do?” Barbara asked, brow quirked up. At this point, this sudden intrusion with strange individuals was getting on her nerves, because while this wouldn’t be something weird in regards to Gotham’s standards, it was something that was getting more and more irritating for her to have to worry about this on top of all her other responsibilites.

“I’m an adjudicator,” They said. “Or, a representative of the High Table to conduct business on their behalf.”

Right. The entire High Table bullshit. The Adjudicator had a long explanation in the beginning, stuff about politics and how it was the thing that held control over the whole world—nothing Barbara didn’t already know about. The Adjudicator managed to fill in the holes in Tabitha’s explanation though, which was helpful. They controlled the whole world, more or less, except they were certain dark spots outside of the Table’s control, places that they didn’t seem to care for or thought weren’t worth their cause—like Gotham.

Barbara had let out a breath at that, because that meant there was nothing above her, nothing to challenge her control over the city.

Gotham was hers. Hers alone.

“What about the other guy—“ She said, waving her hand in the air as she let her head rest against other hand on the counter. “—the Administrator?”

“I’m here to help him,” The Adjudicator began. “To help work things out smoothly, make sure he does his task.”

“What even is this ‘task’,” She said, using air quotes. “Why’s it so important that he got _Victor Zsasz_ of all people in on it?”

“I don’t pretend to know every detail of the Administrator’s plan,” The Adjudicator said. “But it is imperative that you cooperate, Ms. Kean.”

“And if I don’t?”

The Adjudicator stared at her for a moment. “Then it’s entirely possible you’ll lose your post as Gotham’s current kingpin.”

Barbara considered this. She didn’t know the extent of the reach the High Table has, even in a non-High Table controlled city like Gotham, and she wasn’t even sure if it was all true.

She pursed her lips. She hated being in a situation out of her control.

“So I’ll take him up on his offer?” She asked.

“If that’s what he did then yes,” The Adjudicator said simply. “I’m only here to observe, Ms. Kean, and act if I should.”

She nodded, not looking at them. “Alright, then.” She looked back at them. “Will you stop by again?”

“If the situation calls for it.”

She nodded again, mostly to herself, watching as the Adjudicator left, the door shutting closed behind them.

She needs answers.

This mystery was getting harder and harder to figure out by herself.

She took out her phone, dialing a number.

It rung once, twice, before someone answered.

“Hey, Nygma, we’re gonna have to talk.”

 

* * *

 

He was playing a haunting refrain.

Piano had always been a comfort, that much Victor knew about him. Seems like that hasn’t changed over the years. So had a lot of things—the affinity for literary fiction, his preference for drinks, the almost classy fashion that he sported that contrasted with his more rugged and intimidating appearance. None of that’s changed.

They were the things like hobbies, like interests—but peel back that layer of superficiality, there was nothing that Victor was even familiar with anymore.

Still, he allowed himself to find comfort in the outside familiarity of what the Administrator for leisure, even if Victor knew he wasn’t the same. But if Victor were being honest, he wasn’t exactly the same either. The years have changed them both, for better or for worse.

The Administrator’s fingers pressed against the keys lightly, his eyes shut as he played, head tilting up as he let himself get lost in the melody, the sound of music echoing around the room.

Victor watched him from his position at the kitchen, nursing a glass of scotch.

He remembers Alastair, devoid of tattoos or piercings, just a mess of hair and glasses pressed against his crooked nose, hidden in his room, eyeing him from a small crack of the door, curiosity shining in his eyes.

He remembers catching Alastair staring, and Alastair quickly ducks his head away from sight, scrambling to sit back on his bed as Victor walked over and opened the door further.

He remembers a lot of things.

Remembers Alastair’s favorite tea, remembers Alastair’s aversion to the more harder drinks Victor preferred, remembers his favorite books, remembers towers of novels and textbooks piled all over the wooden floors of the room. He remembers the music sheets he kept sprawled over his bed and seemed to pore over every night. He remembers singing, dancing, music playing from a record player, remembers Alastair’s fingers gliding across the piano, scars all over his knuckles and hands that Victor never commented on, remembers smiles and laughter.

He looked back up to stare at the Administrator, his back turned to face Victor, still playing the piano.

He remembers someone who was gone, and all there was left was a stranger with his face.

He remembers the first time he met Oswald, and he had to do a double take—same height, same build, same face—but not the same. His eyes were wild, lively, not shy and downcast, and he carried Fish Mooney’s umbrella and always stood by her side. Where Alastair preferred softer pinks and blues and purples Oswald preferred dark colors, preferred suits and formal shoes and dark purple accents in his tie. Oswald liked red, liked fine dining, liked to be surrounded by money and power. Oswald was clever, Alastair was not. Oswald was vain, taking great care to make his hair look perfect, to make his face flawless, something that reminded Victor of Fish Mooney’s own vanity—and in contrast, Alastair didn’t mind his own appearance, eyes always looking tired from sleepless nights of reading and writing, hair a mess despite him having combed it to make it look neater.

Oswald was impatient, angry, overly emotional.

Alastair was sweet, idealistic, quiet.

The Administrator was nothing like either of them.

Victor set his drink down, watching as the Administrator stopped playing and pushed his stool back, standing up.

Victor had been around so often that the penthouse was practically his as well, so the Administrator didn’t pay him any mind as he took off his gloves, setting them down and walking over to the piano. “I know you said you still liked piano,” Victor said. “Honestly, I didn’t think you did.”

The Administrator raised a brow at that. “How come?”

The tension from the library had dissipated over the last day, and everything was more or less normal—except the Administrator’s openness had lessened a bit, and he gave Victor the cold shoulder more often. Still, it wasn’t really any different from before.

Victor shrugged. “The whole Administrator deal,” He said. “You kinda prioritize work over these things, right?”

The Administrator nodded. “Yes, I do,” He said. “But I can still enjoy the trivial things in life.”

“But you don’t,” Victor said. “Not often.”

The Administrator’s silence was the answer he got. That was the thing about working for the High Table—there was no time for life, to enjoy, to be normal (at least as normal as it could get for Victor) under their watchful eyes.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure if the Administrator would’ve partaken in his former interests without Victor’s prodding. Before Victor proposed for him to have fun he just sat around the apartment making plans in his head that he didn’t share.

Victor’s eyes trailed down to the Administrator’s arms, and he hesitated before laying a finger on one of his tattoos lightly, half-expecting him to flinch and move his arm away, but the Administrator didn’t, instead turning his eyes to Victor’s hand.

“Tell me about your tattoos,” He said softly, eyes looking up to the Administrator’s face, assessing every detail on his face. “You didn’t have this many before.”

The Administrator finally pulled his arm away slowly, eyes darting up to meet Victor’s. “They’re birds.”

“I know,” Victor said. “But why?”

The Administrator shrugged. “I don’t really know,” He muttered, eyes sliding away to stare off at the side. “But I like them. They’re free to fly on those wings, but they’re stuck inked on my skin. It’s almost symbolic.”

He looked back at Victor. “You’d be familiar with that sort of thing.” He stared at Victor’s arm, covered by his long dark sleeve, his own hand moving to pull it back.

It was almost soft, his movement, and for a moment, Victor let himself pretend he was still Alastair, not the Administrator, not this stranger who wore his skin and spoke with his voice.

The Administrator folded them up high enough to show Victor’s scars, some long faded, some new, the skin that he tore open with each kill already healed, some deep enough that the scars protruded outward, the Administrator’s hand running a finger against them and staring at them before darting his eyes back up towards Victor.

They were close now, too close, faces nearly pressed together—but Victor didn’t say a word.

The Administrator’s eyes stared at his own, his pupils shifting around to assess every inch of Victor’s face. Victor’s heart quickened, and the Administrator’s breath hitched, but suddenly, the door rang and the Administrator moved away, heading over to the window.

“Get the door,” He said, and as Victor turned to look at him his eyes were guarded, back to the cold pale green that Victor was becoming more accustomed to.

Victor nodded and headed to the door. He looked inside the peephole, his other eye closed, and the striking figure of Barbara Kean stood outside, with a fur coat and her hair curled perfectly, foot tapping against the floor outside impatiently.

“It’s Barbara,” Victor said.

“Let her inside,” The Administrator said.

Victor opened the door, and Barbara slid inside, each step loud from the click clacking of her heels on the apartment floor. “Tell me about your offer, A-Man.”

The Administrator didn’t turn around. “I need you to locate somebody for me,” He said.

“Sounds simple enough,” She said, glancing at Victor before walking further inside. “So what am I going to get in return? These things aren’t exactly cheap, you know.”

“Like I said before, security,” He said. “The High Table’s hold can secure your position and offer you protection.”

She nodded. “‘Kay. That sounds fair. So, who do you want me to look for? Any reason why you can’t just go to the police?”

He turned to look at her. “I’m looking for Oswald Cobblepot.”

She stared at him, raising a brow. “Uh, he’s _dead_ ,” She said. “Why would you be looking for a dead man?”

“He’s not.”

“He— _what_?” She asked. “I’m sorry, are you out of your goddamn mind? Nygma shot him pointblank in the chest—if the bullet didn’t kill him the river probably did.”

“I don’t know how,” The Administrator said. “But he’s alive. Even if he isn’t, humor me, Ms. Kean—even his body would be sufficient.”

He was lying through his teeth, Victor knew. He needed Oswald alive.

“Okay,” Barbara said. “But you know if he _is_ alive, I’d want him dead. And even if I didn’t, half of Gotham would love to see his head on a pike. Why are you telling me this?”

She was right. Victor could name at least ten right off the top of his head.

“Because I need your services,” The Administrator said, smirking. “And of course, if you refuse or kill him in the process I’ll simply have Victor put a bullet in your brain.”

In one swift motion pulled out a gun from her coat, aiming it at the Administrator’s head. Victor was quick, raising his own gun to aim at her, glancing at the Administrator warily. “Or I can put a bullet in yours right now and end this whole nightmare.”

The Administrator looked at Victor and raised a hand, giving him a look that read, “I’ve got this.” Victor lowered his gun uneasily, watching at the Administrator took a step closer to Barbara.

“Except you won’t,” He said, smile widening. “You know why, Ms. Kean?”

She didn’t move as he stepped closer, the barrel of the gun digging into his chest.

“Because, Ms. Kean, your uncertainty over the nature of the High Table far outweighs your need to eliminate me, a possible threat,” He said, before stepping back and moving away, Barbara’s eyes watching as he turned around to face the window once again. “This building is protected as well—any blood shed in these grounds will result in immediate punishment for the offender. And besides, I can guarantee you that even if you shot me now, a suitable replacement would be put in my place. It’s mildly inconvenient, but your act of insolence will result in your death and quite possibly the death of many others, so I would advise against doing something that rash.”

“Replacement?” She echoed, her gun still trained on him for a moment before she lifted her hand up, turning the safety back on. “Like an adjudicator?”

The Administrator’s shoulders tensed, and even with his back turned on both Barbara and Victor, Victor could tell the air in the room suddenly shifted, especially when the Administrator spoke.

“An adjudicator dropped by your club?” He asked, voice even and devoid of any emotion. His tone was calm, questioning, but Victor could tell something inside him had broke, and from his time with Oswald it was a tone that was common to both of them—calmness with an underlying tidalwave of rage. “ _The_ Adjudicator?”

Barbara could sense it too—and she looked at the Administrator with unease. “Uh, yeah. She said she was keeping an eye on you.”

“Interesting,” The Administrator said, tone clipped, before turning around sharply.

Barbara glanced at Victor, who gave her an unsure look in return.

“Alright, Ms. Kean,” The Administrator said, finger twitching. “Do we have an an agreement?”

“Yes,” She said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent,” He said. “Victor, show her out.”

Victor nodded, turning to lead Barbara out the door. She took another glance at the Administrator before she let him take her outside.

Before he could close the door, she looked at Victor and muttered, “What’s your place in all this, Zsasz?”

“I owe him a favor," He replied honestly. “You should uh—just text me if you got anything. You could get Butch to give you my number.”

She nodded. “Alright. God this whole thing is just... really weird. And offputting. Not to mention flat out irritating.”

He snorted at that. “Tell me about it.”

“Well,” She said. “I guess we’ll be seeing each other.”

Victor nodded. “Yeah,” He said. “See ya.”

He closed the door, turning around to step back inside. As soon as the door closed with a _click_ , it was like everything that the Administrator was keeping in suddenly broke free.

He has never seen him this angry. Not ever. The Administrator locked up his feelings, and though he found himself irritated at times, Victor never knew him to be this enraged.

With his forearm he suddenly pushed away everything on the living room table, a glass vase hitting the floor and breaking as soon as it made contact, papers that Victor had set down earlier flying away, books he had checked out from the library slamming against the couch and falling with a _thud_. The Administrator yelled, clenching his fists.

Victor took a step closer. “Whoa—are you okay?”

“No,” The Administrator snapped. “Do I _look_ okay?”

Victor pursed his lips. Okay, bad thing to say.

“Why are they _here_ ,” The Administrator said, mostly to himself, one hand pulling at his hair. “God _dammit_ , they’re not supposed to be here, this was _my_ task—“

He let out another frustrated groan, hand gripping the edge of a chair and pulling it down, letting out a cry as it hit the floor. “ _Fuck_!” He yelled. “Fuck fuck FUCK!”

“Hey—calm down!” Victor said, rushing over to the Administrator’s side. “What’s up? What’s going on?”

The Administrator turned to look at him, anger stamped on his face. “What’s up, _Victor_ ,” He said slowly. “Is that the Adjudicator is here, probably to completely ruin everything.”

Victor didn’t say anything—he didn’t even know who that was. But the anger on the Administrator’s face eerily reminded him of Oswald, and now he saw just how similar they were, outside from the physicalities. With his nose letting out a steamed huff and his lips set into a frown, brows furrowed and eyes almost wild, Victor could really see that the Administrator and Oswald were brothers.

“Hey hey—just calm down,” He said, moving to hold the Administrator’s arms. “Can you do that? I don’t want you breaking another vase.”

The Administrator set his lips into a thin line but he nodded, pulling away from Victor harshly. “Fine.”

He turned away, shoving the books that had fallen on the couch away and plopping down with a huff, his arms crossed.

Victor stared at him, watched as he shook his leg, and in that moment of childish annoyance Victor thought he looked more like Oswald than he had in the past few minutes.

It was uncanny.

“So.... are you going to tell me what that was all about,” Victor said. “Or am I going to have to guess considering you never tell me anything?”

The Administrator rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing,” He said, pushing up his glasses. “Almost irrational, really—“

“No shit,” Victor mumbled.

“—but I find it almost offensive an adjudicator is here, ready to strike at every mistake,” He said. “The Adjudicator, no less. They must be here to make sure I do everything properly, but knowing them, they’ve already made plans on my behalf—god.” He pressed a hand against his temple, sighing. “It’s all for the best, really, but still. Regardless of the High Table’s wishes, the idea that they don’t even trust me to do this properly is upsetting, really, considering my years of service to the Table. I haven’t disappointed them yet, so why bother with that?”

The Administrator was calmer now. The anger had disappeared as quickly as they came, and now he just sat down with clear frustration and irritation in his eyes.

He looked up at Victor. “I’ve done well so far, haven’t I?”

“I—uh—“ Victor said. “Yeah.”

The Admnistrator frowned. “You don’t sound so sure.”

Victor didn’t want to set him off, he really didn’t. “I mean, I _guess_ , but sometimes your plan feels really stupid.”

Victor half-expected him to get mad again, but instead he just sighed. “I haven’t been on the field, doing things hands-on, not like an adjudicator, or an informant—it’s all _new_ to me, Victor.”

He sounded honest, his eyes downcast and biting his lip.

“I just want to prove myself,” He muttered quietly, looking back at Victor. “You know I’ve always wanted that. And now it feels like I’m starting all over again.”

He sounded like the man Victor knew so long ago. Sounded like Alastair, like long-forgotten teen years, sounded like memories locked away in a time that Victor wanted to forget.

He sounded like himself.

It was more raw, more honest that anything else the Administrator had said ever since this began, and without thinking, Victor walked over and pulled the Administrator up, the man saying, “Hey what are you—“

Victor cut him off as he pressed his lips against the Administrator’s—against _Alastair’s_ , and he blinked, taken aback by Victor, but just as Victor expected him to pull away, he leaned into the kiss, letting his eyes flutter closed and hand moving to hold Victor’s arm as he pushed him back, Victor stumbling back and catching himself on the table.

The Administrator pulled away after a moment, staring into Victor’s eyes in silence, before his eyes softened and he said, “I forgot what that felt like.”

“Me too,” Victor said, looking away.

They were quiet, the Administrator moving away and Victor almost regretted it, regretted being rash (even though he almost always was), regretted it as a rush of old memories made its way to surface.

“When you’re free of the marker,” The Administrator said after a moment of silence, looking up. “When we find my brother... You’ll be free to leave.”

“Yeah,” Victor said. “I guess I will.”

The Administrator looked down, and Victor didn’t say a word. God, he looked lonely. For once he didn’t lock away his feelings, emotions—for once he looked like a person, like the person Victor knew a long long time ago.

“So where does that leave us...?”

“Alastair,” He said softly, and this time the Administrator didn’t correct him. He moved over to put his hand over the Administrator’s, sighing. “I don’t even care about the marker, okay? Look we’ll... figure this out.”

“You hate me,” The Administrator said simply, and Victor couldn’t say no. It wasn’t entirely untrue. “I don’t understand why you did what you did.”

Victor shrugged. “I don’t, either. You don’t actually care—“

“I don’t know if I don’t.”

“—but considering everything, we’re going to have to work this all out. If you want to.”

The Administrator didn’t say a word.

Victor sighed.

“Do you want to?”

The Administrator looked at him.

“Yes.”

Victor wanted to believe him.

He really did.

“...okay,” Victor said. “Then we’ll see what happens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pacing of this chapter is GOD AWFUL. Take my trash. I seriously wasn’t going this route at first, but....... it came to me like halfway through and while fixing the plot and I went: oh god. Fuck.
> 
> Anyway comments fuel me so pls leave some in the comments (or not i really cant make you) so thank you so so much if you do!!! If anyone wants to gush with me about JW or Gotham or generally just talk about this fic feel free to drop me a dm in my instagram or tumblr!! My instagram’s @mis.march (i post art there and I’m far more active on there than tumblr) while my tumblr is mis-march, haha.
> 
> Anyway!!!! Thanks for reading! <3


	11. The Penguin Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald wakes up.

The water was frigid when he hit the water.

His blood trailed up above him, the pain of the bullet shot at his chest shot up at the water’s contact, but despite it he didn’t mind— _couldn’t_ mind, not when the he was dying and the water tore into his throat, seared into his lungs—

He kicked one leg in a futile attempt at trying to reach out towards the surface, his other leg floating uselessly sinking him down further.

Ed.

 _Ed_ —!

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t focus on the betrayal, couldn’t focus on Ed’s words, couldn’t focus that this was all a result of his own failures, couldn’t focus on anything, couldn’t focus on the fact that he’s lost _everything_.

Spots danced at the edge of his vision, the hand that had been reaching out to light above falling limp. He let out a final breath, bubbles escaping his mouth as his eyes began to flutter closed, and everything faded to black.

 

* * *

 

He awoke with a start, sweat beading at his temple and drew down in a thin line, Oswald taking shaky breaths as he felt a dull throb in his chest.

He lifted up his shirt quickly, running his fingers through the bandages where he knew the bullet had shot clean through.

Where was he?

He took a look around, quickly assessing his situation—at least, as best as he could through the haze of memories. He was lost—unsure of what had happened.

He was shot, that much he knew. Over by the docks—

_He remembers Jim Gordon, a gun in his hand, firing, pushing him in the water, but he was alive alive alive and—_

—but anything beyond that was lost to him. He was on a bed, and there was an array of flora and wild plants all around him. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of dirt, backing up against the bed frame.

“Well look who finally decided to wake up,” A voice said from behind him, and Oswald tensed. Before he could turn around, the speaker had walked over in front of him, her long red hair trailing over her back and her lips perked up in a playful smile.

“Who are you?” Oswald said, almost demanding in tone.

“Ivy Pepper,” She said, setting down the potted plant she had been holding. “I found you by the river. If it wasn’t for me you’d be dead.”

He furrowed his brows, brushing the bandage with the back of a hand. “I should be,” He echoed, trying to grasp at the memories that he couldn’t reach. He looked up at her. “You treated me?”

“Yep,” She said, popping the p. “With my plants.”

“That’s...”

He was going to say stupid, ridiculous, but he caught himself despite his immediate instinct to demean her, to act like he was the one holding the cards like he always did. Right now he was in a situation he didn’t know, a situation he couldn’t control. Insulting this girl might end up making things worse for him. Besides, even if it wasn’t true, still treated him, and he could make use of that, at least until he got his bearings and found a way out of here.

“...Impressive,” He said, licking his lip. “You fixed a wound that would’ve killed me. That’s nearly impossible.”

“Modern medicine has nothing on the power of nature,” Ivy said, smiling. Her grin was infectious, eyes lit up in wonder. “Despite all the pain people have brought to it, plants and trees will always find its way to thrive. It’s just—amazing.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He said, turning his head to look around the room. “There sure is uh, a lot of plants in here.”

“Oh, yeah—sorry,” She said, looking around with her lips pursed together. “I wasn’t exactly expecting guests.” She turned to look at him. “So, what happened to you?”

“I...”

He couldn’t remember.

He looked down, lips set into a frown as he tried to, tried to recall what exactly had happened, but all that came was a blank.

There was a dull haze of vague remembrances, most notable being the bullet and the river, but he recalls worry, recalls sleeplessness, recalls his father—recalls Ed.

But he doesn’t understand the significance of these memories, and as much as he tries to remember he couldn’t.

Ivy looked at him with a frown. “You can’t remember?”

He looked up at her. “...no,” He said honestly, confusion and concern etched onto his features. “I... I don’t remember.”

He remembers the last time he had lapses in his memory—Arkham comes to mind, when he would wake up with only the ghost of the memory of his torture, the repeated pain and fire in his head erasing every detail except each suffering moment and each tear into his mind, leaving him waking up in a cold sweat to the sounds of the insane.

He shakes away the memory.

“Well,” Ivy said. “If it helps any, while it comes back to you, you’re more than welcome to stay here.”

Oswald eyed her suspiciously.

She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t have an ulterior motive,” She said. “I know who you are— _Mayor Cobblepot. The Penguin._. I’m not stupid.” She crossed her arms. “But I’m not trying to get anything out of you.”

He raised a brow. “So what, you just treated me out of the goodness of your heart, that it?”

“Something like that,” She said, shrugging. “I don’t know, maybe I felt bad. I mean, I have all the means to fix you and just leaving you out there for dead seems kinda mean.”

“But practical,” He muttered, looking away. If she worked for someone else—though he highly doubted it—they would’ve just left him to drown, left him to die. As paranoid as Oswald was, she seemed to be truthful, if a bit too overly excited. But despite his reservations, she healed him, fixed him, and right now she was the closest thing he had to an ally.

He’ll need her. He’ll rally the men, figure out what happened, take back his seat—and then he’ll figure out what to do with her.

One step at a time, Oswald.

One step at a time.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, she brought him soup.

He stared at it in his lap when she handed it to him.

“What am I supposed to do with this.”

Ivy scoffed.

“Eat it, obviously,” She said, rolling her eyes. “You were out cold for days, least you could do is eat.”

“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” He challenged, looking up at her defiantly.

Instead of responding, Ivy just set her face into a frown and took his spoon, dipping it into the soup and taking a spoonful. She tossed the spoon back at the bed, Oswald staring back at her, unimpressed. “See? It’s not poisoned. Now eat up before it gets cold.”

He pursed his lips together. “The spoon’s got all your spit on it now.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Wh— _that’s_ your concern? Pengy, I gave you food. God, you are so ungrateful.”

He didn’t correct her at the nickname. He’d at least give her that, because he’d admit he was being a little insufferable. But he didn’t want to sit by passively, couldn’t make her think she could play him.

“I’m not ungrateful,” He said. “I’m hygeinic. There’s a difference. And on that note—I don’t think making me stay in a room full of possibly filthy plants will do much for me health wise.”

Ivy glared at him. “Excuse me—these plants saved your life.”

“Right right,” Oswald said, sitting up, wincing as the wound in his chest flared up at the movement. “But can I at least get another spoon?”

“Drink from the bowl,” She said, picking up the spoon. “It’s not that hot, anyway.”

She turned around and left the room, and Oswald stared at her as she exited.

Ivy was different from most people he’d met, he’ll give her that.

When she was gone, he took the time to reflect.

For some reason, when he tried to remember, there was an ache in his heart, a dull throbbing pain that would surface when he nearly found himself remembering, like fingers nearly reaching it, trying to grasp at the forgotten memories.

All he remembered was Ed, something about Ed—but he doesn’t know why.

(Maybe he doesn’t want to remember why.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the bit of a short chapter—and extra sorry for the fact that it took me days to even write this. It’s been busy—I’ve been spending a bit of time with family and working on some art (which as always you can check on my instagram @mis.march, haha shameless plug) and I needed to get this part out before returning to the regular affairs of A and Victor. As always, thank you for reading! If you like the fic so far, please don’t be afraid to comment—comments really make my day and motivate me to write more.


	12. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara assigns Ed a task. The Administrator makes a phone call.

“The Riddler?” Barbara asked, throwing down the newspaper on the ornate dining table with a smack. “God, and I thought you couldn’t get any more pretentious.”

Ed looked up at her from his own copy of the paper, the words _THE RIDDLER STRIKES GOTHAM_ printed on the front page in bold letters. “Our mutual friend inspired me a little bit,” He said. “I think _the_ has a nice little ring to it, wouldn’t you agree? Just kinda rolls off the tongue better.”

Barbara looked at him, eyes narrowed in irritation. “I’m not calling you that, Ed.”

“Well, you better get used to it,” He said, leaning forward across the table to get the tiny pot of sugarcubes, picking one up and putting it in his coffee. He stirred, looking up at Barbara as the metal of his spoon clunk against the porcelain of his cup, the glare of the sun hitting the lens of his glasses as he stared at her. “Because we won’t have a very good business relationship otherwise.”

“Fine,” She said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll call you _Riddler_ , as dumb as it sounds. Happy?”

Ed—or she supposed, the Riddler—smiled. “Thank you,” He said, and for what it’s worth, it seemed genuine enough. “Speaking of business, I don’t think this whole give and take thing we have is working—seeing as, you know, most of what I do is give and you only take.”

Barbara crossed her arms. “You benefit from this too,” She pointed out.

Ed pursed his lips in thought, lips quirking up for a small moment. “I suppose I do,” He said. “But really, I could be doing this without you, though I’m sure you wouldn’t entirely appreciate that. After all, you need information on him as much as I do.” He leaned back on his chair, hands together as he tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling. “All I’m asking for is a little compesation, Barbara—seeing as I’m a wanted felon now, I don’t think money will come by as easily.”

Despite herself, she noticed Ed was different now. More cocky, less unsure—something had happened and Barbara wasn’t sure what. She could see it in his eyes, there was a light there that she hadn’t seen before, and it was in the way he walked, the way he spoke—the little things that made up a whole.

His finger didn’t twitch, eyes weren’t sunken in and she couldn’t help but feel there was something that broke free, like there was something he had been holding back that was set loose. At least, something he was still holding back even after murdering his girlfriend and framing Jim.

“So what, you want me to pay you?” Barbara asked with a brow raised.

“If I don’t have resources I won’t be able to help you solve the rest of this puzzle you seem to find yourself stuck in,” He said simply. “So really, it’s a win-win. You become my benefactor, I slip the responsibility of finding more about our shared acquaintance off your hands. I get money, you get your free time back, and we _both_ win. See?”

She couldn’t argue with that. Still, she knew Ed wouldn’t give her everything—he needed an ace up his sleeve, leverage he can use against her. It was a smart play, considering Tabitha and Butch still want his blood.

She’ll figure that out later.

“How do I know you’ll tell me everything?” She asked.

“Oh, I won’t,” Ed admitted easily. “I don’t think you’re dumb enough to think I’m entirely trustworthy—how could you, when I quite literally tortured your girlfriend and her boyfriend—but I can assure you, Barbara, I will give you what you need.”

He stared at her, and that was good enough for her. If he went back on his word, then she’ll have to get the information some other way (preferably with force if she had to; Tabitha would love to get her hands on Ed and that would be the perfect situation for that), but right now, she trusts that he’ll do his job properly.

She recalls what happened when she met up with the Administrator. Oswald was alive. She wasn’t sure if she should divulge this information to him—not out of malice, but she knew if she even breathed a word of what the Administrator told her Ed would go into a frenzy, losing all sight of her request to spill blood. No, she couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

She nodded, adjusting her coat. Ed didn’t stay at the manor anymore—police were swarming all over the place looking for him, practically descrating the grounds of the Van Dahls, what would Oswald think of it now—so he kept himself hidden in an abandoned apartment building. Despite how rundown and empty the place is, Ed still carried himself with grace and that devilish glint in his eye, as if he hasn’t hit rock bottom with nowhere else to go. It was intriguing, but not enough for Barbara to really care. It didn’t matter to her as long as he did his job right.

She looked at the random pieces of furniture littered around. He at least managed to nab some of the various Van Dahl effects, probably passed down from generation to generation, given the overly extravagant nature of some of the fixtures he had set up in his current living space.

“Fine,” She said. “I’ll see what I can do about the money situation and maybe—“ She wrinkled her nose at the dusty worndown apartment. “—do something about this housing situation.”

“Good.” He smiled. “Now, what do you need? You said you needed to talk to me.”

Barbara nodded. “Yeah—there’s someone else you need to know about. Calls themself the Adjudicator.”

He raised a brow. “Another one?” He said.

“Yeah,” She said. “Here to help ‘smooth things along’, whatever that meant. Zsasz met me this morning on the Administrator’s behalf—and he asked me to look for this woman.” She put her hand inside her coat, lifting out a grainy image of a woman carrying something by the river. The photo quality was so poor that it was clear it was taken from far away, and whatever she was carrying was hard to distinguish. But given context clues, she knew it was probably Oswald’s body—Victor filled her in on the entire situation when she met up with him this morning. “I’ve got my hands full right now so I need you to act as my proxy.”

Ed hummed in response, picking up the image. “Kinda hard to tell what I’m looking at here—the quality isn’t the best. He tell you why she’s important?”

“No,” She lied. “Just get the name, Nygma, see why she’s relevant. Tabitha’s gonna get pissed off if I spend too much time on this.”

He nodded. “Just send me the details. I’ll figure this all out and send you updates on the situation.”

“I trust you’ll deal with this your way,” She said. “I’ll get you your money by the end of the week. Tell Zsasz I’m having you in charge of the search.”

Note to herself: tell Zsasz not to tell Ed about Oswald.

Ed nodded again. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

_The fort had become a safe space._

_Their mother never really cared much for the attic, so it was left worn down and uncared for, the wood underneath then creaking with every step. Alastair had to brush away a cobweb, his footsteps disturbing the dust that had collected on the attic floor._

_She was often out, mostly on the weekends—if she wasn’t busy teaching them and working them to the bone she would be conducting business with mysterious men, women—and every time she came back Alastair waited, breath in his lungs, terrified of what news she would bring._

_Last time when she came home late at night and called for her children to rally around her Alastair ended up having to shoot a man pointblank in the face as he sat on top of him, shirt off and face breaking no emotion._

_It scared him that everything was starting to mesh together now—the kills, the men and women, everything—he remembered them all like a blur and it felt like none of it was real, like none of it mattered._

_He was 14 and he was a killer. He can use a gun, brandish a knife, stare a man in the face as Alastair watched his life drain from his eyes, almost unfeeling._

_He still dreaded every moment—but the actual act itself, he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything._

_His resentment was still there, try as he might to repress it—he couldn’t do anything. He can’t help but wish he grew up somewhere else, had a home. But this was his home. This was his mother—his Mama. There was nothing he could do to change that. And even if he did, what can he do? Run away? He had no other places to go. No friends. Nowhere to run. He’d be dead before he even made it out the front door._

_He shook away these thoughts—no, he was her son. She loves him. She said she was proud of him, proud of the strides he took in his work. Proud that he was a killer._

_His siblings weren’t the same. Brianna, while she could work wonders with a knife, strong despite her size, while she had sweet words laced with honey drip dripping from them letting anyone’s guard down, she hated it. The feel of the blade, rush of the kill—it was exhilarating but Mama was_ cruel _and this wasn’t right. Francis conducted kills sloppily, preferring brute force to Violet’s swift agile dances, Francis using fists while Violet was silent and deadly, like a butterfly who stung and struck with agility._

_But one thing was the same: they all hated her. Except for Alastair, despite the resentment bubbling in his chest._

_She was their mother._

_He’d always love her._

_“We have to run,” Francis said, Violet laying down on his shoulder. Brianna raised a brow._

_Alastair blinked at that, looking up at where Francis was playing with Violet’s hair. They were older now, he muses silently. It seems like forever ago when they were children._

_“And where would we go?” Brianna asked._

_“Anywhere but here,” Violet said, looking up. “You can’t honestly tell us you like living here.”_

_Brianna glanced at Alastair uneasily. He didn’t betray anything—recently it’s been like that, he felt numb at times, like he wasn’t all there. It should probably be concerning, but he didn’t feel concerned._

_“Our mom doesn’t care about us,” Francis said._

_“But we can’t just_ leave _,” Brianna insisted._

_Francis rolled his eyes. “We’re not asking you to come, but you’re both welcome to join. All we’re saying is we’re going to do it, and you can’t do anything to stop us.”_

_Brianna’s eyes slid off to the side, looking at Alastair._

_He didn’t say anything._

 

* * *

 

The Administrator tapped his foot angrily, one hand on the telephone and the other on his hip. He bit his lip as the phone rang, Victor sitting down nonchalantly reading the paper.

“You see the news, A?” Victor asked, looking up. “Wow, Nygma’s coming for your brand. _The Riddler_.”

“Not now, Victor,” The Administrator mumbled, brows knit together as he waited for a response.

It was weirdly awkward for the past few days. The Administrator was less cold with him almost warm at times—but Victor could sense him holding back. He didn’t try to initiate anything, and neither did Victor, but there was this tension neither of them would break. Still, it was better than before. Things felt almost familiar to him, with the Administrator opening up slightly, speaking up unprovoked, making small talk.

It wasn’t like they avoided the topic—no, they tried to broach it several times, but it was hard to, not with the Administrator keeping secrets like this. So, at some point they just agreed to let it run its course, see where it leads—let themselves work it out. It’ll work out eventually. At least, Victor hoped it would.

Priority was finding Oswald. Emotional baggage later.

The doorbell rung, a melody the Administrator had set the tone to ringing across the house. The Administrator groaned in irritation. “They’re not answering—Victor just answer the door.”

Victor nodded, getting up with ease, sauntering over to the door and checking the peephole.

Speak of the devil.

He looked up, turning to the Administrator who was pacing. “It’s Nygma.”

“Well—talk to him outside,” The Administrator said, biting his lip as he held the phone against his ear.

“You got it, chief,” Victor said, opening the door and stepping out, letting it close behind him.

Ed had peeked at the door before it closed, raising a brow. “What was that about?”

“It’s nothing—the boss is just kinda stressed right now. Work stuff.” Victor shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. “Guess you’ll have to deal with me for now. So, what can I do for you?”

“Barbara sent me,” Ed said, taking off his hat. Since when was that a thing? Whatever, it was Gotham; if he wanted to wear garish green and a bowler hat, Victor didn’t see why not. “She tasked me with your little issue? She’s filled me in on the details.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Barbara knew Oswald was alive, though he didn’t trust her not to tell Ed. He wasn’t sure if Ed wasn’t supposed to know, but remembering Ed’s conversation with the Administrator, he remembered the Administrator being careful with his words—not once did he mention the possibility of Oswald being alive. “What do you know?”

Ed raised a brow at that. “I have to find this woman,” He said, taking out an image from his jacket.

Victor took it. It was the same one he had given Barbara that morning, taken by one of the Administrator’s informants. Despite the High Table’s decision to maintain distance from Gotham, they still had informants and people within the city—but it wasn’t a job most preferred to be assigned to.

Truth was, Gotham was a wasteland to assassins—it was like a settlement you were sent to as punishment. No one who was sent to Gotham was sent there for good reason—except the Administrator, Victor supposed, because no one had ever been assigned a task of this nature to the city.

Gotham’s criminal underbelly was considered too feral even for the most ruthless of killers—and it was nearly impossible to penetrate with the crime families in Gotham being insanely attached to bloodlines and loyalty. Not that Victor could blame them, he himself was loyal to Falcone (and still was—all it takes is one word and he’d have left Oswald without blinking an eye if Falcone wished it so), but to a member of the High Table working as an informant it made the task of monitoring the city hopeless. Not to mention Gothamites were relentless—they were loud and terrible and out for blood.

It was one of the reasons why the Administrator hated it here, but despite all that, he was still somehow determined to take control over the city, see his plan through. It was admirable, Victor thinks—how that trait passed on despite the years. How his vigilence never wavered, how the Administrator was still fiercely loyal.

Despite the Administrator’s disdain for the city, Victor himself loved it—in the years he’s lived here, he loved every inch of it. The gangs, the fights, the danger, the adrenaline rushing through him with every kill, every life he snuffed out, every time he dug blade to flesh with each kill—Gotham was damn fucking wonderful. It was a storm of chaos and terror and he reveled in it, reveled in the unpredictability, loved the constant changing of tide and the way of the city—it was like he lived here his whole life.

This was home.

“That’s all you know?” Victor asked. He looked back at the image.

“Yes.”

Victor stared at him for a second, eyes narrowed, before allowing himself to relax.

Ed didn’t know.

“Quality of it sucks, right?” Victor said, handing the photograph back to Ed.

Ed nodded. “Mm, it’s not the best, but you can at least see most of her prominent features. Long red hair, fair skin—there’s lots of girls with those features but we can scout around, ask areas nearby if any particular redheads who passed them stood out the most.”

“Like, canvass the area?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes I forget you used to work for the GCPD,” Victor said. “You sure you weren’t a detective?”

Ed tucked the image back in his pocket. His smile was strained, and he looked impatient, with his brows furrowed together. “Positive. Do you want me to canvass the area or can you do it yourself?”

Victor looked back at the door.

It looked like the Administrator would be busy for a while, and it was still the middle of the afternoon. Plus, he didn’t trust Ed by himself—Ed’s proven himself untrustworthy and it was better if he could monitor Ed’s actions while they were there. Not to mention a random passerby could slip up and mention the striking similarities of the recently deceased mayor to the woman’s carried weight, and Victor couldn’t have that. “Why don’t we do it together?” He said nonchalantly. “Admin’s gonna be busy for a while so I’ve got time to kill.”

“Now?” Ed’s tone was clipped, clearly irritated with the way he pursed his lips.

“Yeah,” Victor said. “Why? You got a problem?”

Ed looked like he wanted to say more, but decided against it. “No, not at all!” He said, forced smile on his face—the annoyance in his eyes said it all.

Victor let his lips quirk into a half-smirk.

“Then c’mon, let’s go. We don’t have all day.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t see what’s the problem,” The Adjudicator said. The Administrator huffed over the line. He was clearly pressed—though that wasn’t surprising. They always knew him as a little bit desperate to prove himself. “I’m here to make your job all the more easier.”

“ _I don’t want it to be because of_ you,” He hissed, and the Administrator could practically feel the venom dripping off his tone.

“Of course not,” They said, humoring him. “But to make matters simpler for you I’ve already contacted the Court—they shouldn’t give you much trouble. I can take care of that front, if you so desired. After all, I’m at your service. I’ve had more experience than you, and the Table—“

“ _You know very well that’s not why you’re doing this,_ ” He said, cutting them off. They set their lips into a thin line, irritated. “ _You need a win after the whole John Wick mess. And if things go south, you can blame me. Either way, you don’t lose. You have all to gain and I have everything at stake._ ”

“You’re more clever than you let on,” The Adjudicator said, tone icy. “Though it seems a bit pathetic, don’t you think? Overcompensating for the fact you work a _desk job_ —Administrator, what you do is file papers and make your pink dressed girls do all the work. Your thinly veiled desperation comes off as a bit needy. The Table hasn’t given you the chance to work in the field because they don’t think you can handle it.”

“ _Shut up. They’ve given me Gotham._ ”

“Under these very special circumstances, yes,” They mused. “I think of it as a stroke of luck, really—otherwise you’d be back at your office approving the next bounty, pounds of paperwork on your desk. But really, your talent isn’t in these high stakes situations, Administrator. You’re not a fast thinker, you don’t plan—let me handle it.”

“ _Over my dead body._ ”

They scoffed. “I’m just trying to help.”

“ _You’re going to ruin everything._ ”

“If everything falls apart that will be your doing, not mine,” They said simply. “Call back if you need my help.”

They pulled the phone away from their ear and hung up.

The Administrator would come crawling back. And if he didn’t, well, the High Table would have to be informed of his stubborness.

He was always one of the more ambitious ones.

 

* * *

 

“Nobody here knows anything,” Ed said, annoyed. He put his hat back on, his saunter angry and mouth set into a frown. “This has all been one grand waste of time.”

Ed’s pace was fast, so Zsasz had to practically jog to keep up.

“Not necessarily,” Zsasz said. “One of them said he spotted a guy talking to a redhead before this whole thing started.”

Ed turned around to look at him, stopping. “That could be _anyone_. Do you know how many redheads there are in this goddamn city?”

“Uh—“

“Too many!” Ed said, raising his hands up in exasparation. “This is going absolutely _nowhere_ —god.”

“Still,” Victor said. “It’s a possible lead. Aren’t police officers supposed to track down every lead?”

“Yeah, if you’re James Gordon,” Ed said, rolling his eyes as he moved to sit down on the street. “I’m exhausted.”

Victor shoved his hands inside his pockets. “Honestly, same. Kinda hoping A opens a bottle of wine back at home so we can chill for a moment, let him forget his work problems for a while or something.”

Ed looked up at him. “What’s up with you and him?”

Victor looked startled at the question. “Uh, what do you mean?”

“You and the Administrator,” Ed said. “Are you two friends or something?”

“You could say that,” Victor said slowly, eyes staring off to the side. “We’ve got history, but it was a long time ago. I just owe him, that’s all.”

Ed raised a brow. “Owe him enough to be his right hand man?”

“I’m not—I’m not his right hand man,” Victor said. “We’re partners. Ish.”

“In what? What’re you both even _doing_?”

“I—look, I don’t actually _know_ , okay?” Victor said, crossing his arms and pursing his lips. “But this is all important to him, so I gotta help him, y’know? Kinda owe it to him after...” Victor trailed off, but Ed didn’t notice, lost in his own thoughts.

It reminded him of when he would’ve done anything for Oswald, would’ve killed, lied, cheated—just for Oswald’s own sake. He owed it to Oswald, after everything. And Oswald couldn’t even return that same kindness back.

He hated it.

The situation’s own resemblance to his own was almost uncanny—the Administrator’s striking similarities to Oswald didn’t matters much. He found himself in Victor, following the will of a man who doesn’t even care. Someone selfish, someone _cold_.

Perhaps that runs in the family.

“...I get it,” Ed said quietly, looking up at Victor. “But word of advice, I wouldn’t get too attached. You’d only get hurt in the process.”

Victor looked at him. He was quiet. “I know,” He said after a while. “But it wouldn’t be entirely unfair.”

Ed wondered what that meant.

 

* * *

 

_”The two of them are really running away, huh?” Brianna said, looking out into the window. Alastair sat beside her, hands on his lap._

_“Yeah,” He said. “I’m not really surprised. They love each other.”_

_Brianna turned to look at him, eyes shifting as she analyzed his face. “I guess so...”_

_If Francis had Violet, Alastair had Brianna. The two of them were close, like almost inseparable twins—she was the only person in this house that really felt like family. Like a sister._

_But... Francis wanted to run. And Alastair didn’t find a problem with that, of course—they kept each other’s secrets, but_ still _. If Brianna ran—and he could tell she wanted to, she could lie but she did, she can’t deny that—he has nothing. No one else but their mother._

_“But this is home,” He said. “Isn’t it?”_

_She frowned. “I suppose... it doesn’t really feel like one, at times.”_

_“What does it mean to be at home, then?” Alastair asked. “This is all I’ve ever known.”_

_She looked at him, almost pityingly._

_He didn’t like that look on her face._

_It felt almost condescending._

_“Bri,” He said, turning to look at her. “You wouldn’t leave me, right?”_

_Brianna blinked. “Is this about what Francis—“_

_He cut her off. “You wouldn’t leave, right?”_

_“Of course not,” She said, honesty lacing her tone. She was always sweet, especially to him. Most especially to him. They were brother and sister—linked by experience and by fate. “I promise you—I would never leave you alone. If it means having to stay in this hellhole a little longer, I’ll stay.”_

_Despite her smile, he couldn’t help but feel she was lying._

_He stared at her for a moment, assessing every inch of her expression in suspicion._

_“...okay,” He said. “Thank you.”_

_He never cared much for Violet and Francis._

_But Brianna had to stay, so as much as he loved her—he couldn’t let her leave._

* * *

 

Victor tapped his keycard against the lock. The light turned green and Victor turned the knob, pushing the door open and entering. “How was the call?” Victor asked.

“Awful,” The Administrator said, putting on his vest. Victor was glad for the Administrator’s openness recently—it was a bit more domestic than he expected, despite the obvious tension. It was... nice. “The Adjudicator is simply _dreadful_ , Victor. They’re condescending.”

“Hypocrite,” Victor said. “Like you aren’t condescending as hell, too.”

“This is different,” The Administrator said, looking at him. “Don’t be a prick, Victor.”

“I know, I know,” He said, putting his hands up in defeat.

“Where were you, by the way? I was worried someone had taken you.”

Victor snorted. “Wow, you? Worried? I never would have thought.”

The Administrator frowned. “I’m serious.”

“Went canvassing around for the ginger chick with Nygma,” Victor said, sitting down.

The Administrator’s frown deepened. “The Riddler?”

Victor stared at him. “Whoa, you’re using his title?”

“It’s only respectful.”

“Wow, okay, right—High Table courtesy. You all have your weird titles.”

“They’re symbols of respect,” The Administrator said. “Something you wouldn’t understand.” He adjusted his tie, Victor watching as he pushed it up.

“Hey, I understand respect. Just not your kind.”

“Whatever, Victor,” The Administrator huffed, dusting his pants. “Why were you with the Riddler?”

Victor rolled his eyes at the nickname, but didn’t argue it further. “Kean got him to work the redhead lead with us.”

The Administrator frowned once more. “That’s... not ideal.”

“I know, right?” Victor said. “But I think I can try monitoring him. He’s smart so he’ll probably find her—but my problem is if he finds out Oswald’s alive we’re pretty much fucked. Guy’s gonna do anything to get Penguin dead.”

“And we don’t want to ruin my family reunion now do we?” The Administrator muttered, mostly to himself.

“Hey, why are you fixing your outfit?” Victor asked. “You going anywhere?”

“I have to make a stop,” The Administrator explained. “Work.”

“Ah,” Victor said, nodding. “Can I tag along?”

“No, just me—you can’t come. It’s confidential, you know how it goes.”

“Aw,” Victor said, pouting.

The Administrator pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“God, I need a drink. Working at the Administration was never this stressful. With this whole Adjudicator thing and Nygma on top of everything... how do you it, Victor? This city—it’s _awful_.”

Victor smiled softly. “But it’s home,” He said, looking up at the Administrator. He looked back at Victor, brows furrowed. “It may be complete fucking horseshit but it’s home and I love this city. Gotham’s home. You might not see it, but your brother does.”

The Administrator didn’t say a word as he stared at Victor, letting his hand that had been holding his tie fall to his side.

Victor shrugged. “Guess it just takes time for you to fall in love with it. I hope you see this place as I do someday—it’s got a way of drawing you in.”

The Administrator gave him a soft smile of his own. “I hope so too,” He said. He pursed his lips into a smile. “Well, I guess I have to go. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“See ya.”

“Goodbye, Victor.”

He walked over to the door, Victor calling out, “Can I drink all your vodka?”

“Do whatever you want, just don’t puke on the bed, _please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked on this on and off for the past few days—it’s a much better writing practice than just writing in one go. I have bad writing habits. As always, if you liked this chapter, leave a comment! It always makes my day.
> 
> Also, if you want more Nygmob content that is ALSO quality, you guys should check out my friend’s fic—birds fly in different directions by nygmadaydreams. It’s a fun little middle school to high school AU fic and I’ll be working on the sequel after working on this fic so if you like my writing you should look out for that!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! <3
> 
> EDIT: ao3 won’t let the link work so if ever you’re interested I have it bookmarked.


	13. Francis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Administrator pays a visit to someone from his past.

_Alastair‘s eyes were dull, blood spattered across his cheek._

_He lowered his knife slowly, the neck of the woman in front of him gushing out blood as she fell to her knees, falling flat on her face as she bled out._

_His mother was watching intently, her eyes narrowed as his siblings stood beside her._

_“That,” She said. “Is how you kill.”_

_He turned to look at her, his breathing calm. It didn’t waver, didn’t hitch—his heart slowed down from the sudden rush of adrenaline when he slit the woman’s throat._

_“Did I do well?” He asked, toneless. Brianna’s eyes were furrowed in concern, her eyes following him as he slid the knife across a napkin, wiping the blood off._

_“More than well,” Mama said, in her usual grating voice of displeasure, except there was a strange inflection to the cadence of her tone—satisfaction. It was clear as day, staring at Alastair with sick pride gleaming in her eyes. Her lips were quirked into a smile, walking over to Alastair. She put her hands on his shoulders, and he tensed, straightening his back, a chill running up his spine as she spoke. “It was perfect.”_

_“See, that is an efficient kill. No hesitation, no emotion—the perfect_ weapon _.“ Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and it felt cold—frigid. He wasn’t sure if it was because of her or because of the incessant numbness that plagued him as of late, or perhaps both. Regardless, he knew he should be concerned, but really, did it really matter? The less he cared the more she was proud of him. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what he wanted? For her to be proud? To prove himself? To be her perfect weapon? Her tool for destruction—capable of anything without blinking an eye. Smart, quick-witted, emotionless, and most of all, loyal._

_Brianna’s look from the corner of his eye made him feel a pang at his heart. She looked... disappointed. Why? This is what he was meant to be._

_This is who he’s supposed to be._

_But why did it hurt to see Brianna stare at him with regret in her eyes, as if she was let down, as if this wasn’t supposed to happen?_

_Why did it feel like this was all_ wrong _?_

_“Happy birthday,” Mama said sweetly, smiling at him. He looked up at her, a sick sense of pride surging through him. Her praise was like drops of water being trickled down a parched throat, him being so deprived of it he would lap up any affection she gave. “My favorite.”_

_And he was._

_He used to be the weakest, the forgotten one—but he clawed his way through the top and now he’s the one she chose, now he’s the perfect tool for Mama to use, now he’s useful._

_He knew his siblings hated her._

_He knew they were planning to escape._

_As much as he loved his mother, he wasn’t going to snitch. He knew better than to do that._

_As desperate as he was to keep Brianna with him, he knew she would hate him forever if he did._

_Besides, it was a little token of their familial bond. They spent years together and he wasn’t going to ruin all of that by telling Mama what they were planning. As much as he wants her trust, he wasn’t a backstabbing rat. No, he had a code._

_His eye darted towards Francis for a brief second. He didn’t miss the way Violet stood beside him all too closely._

_He still didn’t know what to make of the two of them._

_It was none of his business._

_Mama let go, suddenly clapping her hands as she grinned, almost manic. “I think it’s time to get this mess cleaned up before I fix up dinner. Alastair, come along darling. Let your siblings fix this all up—it’s your birthday, after all!”_

_She pushed him out of the room, leading him into the dining room. She sat him down, taking out a lighter and with a flick of her thumb a small flame lit up, her pointed fingers holding it carefully and lighting the singular candle that was placed carefully on the vanilla cake sitting atop the table. Alastair never particularly cared for any of that._

_His life was a constant mission and there was no time for leisure. No time for hobbies, interests, preference._

_He watched as she cut up a slice and placed it on a plate in front of him._

_“Happy 15th birthday, Alastair,” She said sweetly. “I hope you continue to make me proud.”_

_He did, too._

 

* * *

 

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

He got up with a jolt.

Man, shit—who was out there at this hour?

He grabbed his gun off his bedside table, clicking off the safety, walking over to the door silently, cringing at the creak of the wooden floor as he made a wrong step. He leaned against the wall of the side of the door warily, holding the gun up, his shoulders tense.

“Who is it?” He asked, calm and practiced.

“Francis—it’s me. Open up.”

He relaxed, dropping his gun and turning on the safety, putting it on the desk. He unlocked the door, allowing Alastair to slide in, silent and impassive.

“Hey, man,” Francis said. “What’re you doing in Gotham?”

“Business,” Alastair said curtly, glancing at Francis. It was hard to get a read on him. He was in-fuckin-scrutible. Kind of weird, if you ask Francis, because at some point Alastair was the one who held his heart on his sleeve. Before she wore him down.

He doesn’t really know what happened to Alastair after he left.

All he remembers is the next time he saw him, asking Alastair for two tickets to Gotham and the newly endowed Administrator handed them to him, no strings attached. A little family parting gift, he had said, and told Francis to never bother him again.

If he were being honest, Francis didn’t truly understand the extent of Alastair’s influence. But this was his brother (ish). Whatever it was, the guy was still the same little kid who loved reading and had a knack for sleepless nights, loved his sister and had a desperate need for mommy’s approval.

Well, maybe not the last bit, all things considered.

“Business?” He asked. “Like what?”

“The Court of Owls,” Alastair said, turning to look at him. “I need to discuss some things with them. You know how it goes.”

Francis raised a brow. “Okay... what does any of that have to do with me?”

“Do you still have your connections to the Court?”

He huffed. “It was hardly anything in the first place and you know it. They just stopped by whenever they needed my ‘services’, or whatever. By the way, how do you even know about that?”

“I have my sources,” Alastair said simply. “I need you to help me relay a message to them.”

“Uh... how? First of all, it’s impossible to even sit down with them. Court is sneaky as hell, man.”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “Look, you owe me. We both know you do. It may not be marked by blood but we know what I did and quite frankly, dear brother, despite your misgivings about me you owe me this much.”

Francis bit the inside of his lip, crossing his arms. “Fine. But I’ll need compensation.”

“Not a problem.” Alastair pulled out an envelope from inside his vest, handing it to Francis. He looked at it warily before tearing it open, pulling out a stack of bills and counting them. It wasn’t the best, but it’ll do. Work’s been hard to come by lately, especially with all these new players in Gotham.

He looked up at Alastair. There was a sense of familiarity in his features—not from the fact that he knew him before, no, Francis hadn’t seen him in years and the last time he saw him he was already covered head to toe in ink, almost indistinguishable from the man he was before. No, that wasn’t what he noticed.

Wait.

“You know,” He said, putting the cash back in the envelope and heading over to his cabinet. He slid it inside, locking it with a key. “The mayor looks a lot like you, now that I think about it.”

Alastair’s lips were pursed into a thin line. “I’ve heard.”

“Kinda funny. You two related or somethin’?” He asked jokingly, putting his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have to get jealous over some sorta secret brother, do I?”

“No, of course not,” Alastair said with gritted teeth, Francis opening the door.

“After you,” Francis said, and Alastair stepped out first with Francis following behind and locking the door. “Well, that’s a relief. Be weird if you suddenly gave a shit about your family now, huh?”

“Yes. Very weird indeed.”

 

* * *

 

“Maybe I could get a whiff of one of your plants and it’ll jolt my memory,” Oswald suggested, watching as Ivy took care of one of her plants, her fingers lithe and careful as she touched their leaves, lovingly and gently taking care of them.

“Maybe,” Ivy echoed. “But honestly, I don’t think that’d really work, if I’m being a bit honest with you. I’m still trying to figure out a lot with the biology and the ins and outs of my friends—“ He rolled her eyes at her wording. “—but if there is a way to get you your memory back, I’m sure to let you know. It’s just...” She bit her lip, avoiding his gaze.

“Just _what_ , Ivy?”

“You know...”

Oswald tapped his foot impatiently. “Oh just get to the point!”

“What if you don’t _want_ to remember?”

He stared at her—Ivy was all worried, her brows furrowed and lip curled into a sort of pout—for a moment before scoffing. “Oh, really, I don’t want to remember? _Me_?Need I remind you that I own this city?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I only heard it the last thirty seven times,” She said, setting down the pot. She took a chair and dragged it in front of him, plopping down on it and leaning her chin on the palms of her hands.

“What are you doing.”

“Okay, Pengy, riddle me this.”

(Why did that word hurt why did it make his heart ache he didn’t understand he needed Ed but why does it feel so painful to think of him to be reminded Ed Ed _Ed_ he needs him like fish needs water like a wilting flower he needs him he’s going to lose his mind wondering wishing waiting—)

“Go on,” Oswald said.

“If you’re so confident on your position of power why haven’t you called your men, hm?”

“I—“ He opened his mouth, flushing red. “Because I’m _waiting_.”

She raised a brow. “For what? The perfect time? If anything this is probably the best time. I grew up on the streets, Mr. Mayor—I know you can’t play around when it comes to these situations. You’ll lose all your power if you keep waiting.”

He looked down, crossing his arms. “I’m biding my time.”

“Pengy, even that’s a weak excuse,” She said. “The news announced you dead. If anything, you should be making a m—“

Wait, what?

He cut her off. “Can you repeat what you just said?”

“You should be making a move?”

He shook his head. “No, not _that_. The other thing you said.”

“They announced you dead?”

He nodded quickly. As much as he tried to deny it, Ivy was right—he felt compelled to stay hidden, to find an answer before acting. Because something felt wrong. Something told him something _changed_ but he didn’t know what.

And they announced him dead.

That was... strange.

If anything, Oswald was missing. Shouldn’t they be looking for him? Even if he _had_ died, which he was sure he would have if not for Ivy’s timely intervention (he would never admit it but he owed her his life, that much he knew), it was standard to at least try going on a search.

Unless...

Unless the killer admitted to it.

“Yeah,” Ivy continued. She shifted uneasily, trying to scan his face. He cocked his head to the side confusedly. “You haven’t read about it?”

He shook his head. “No... if you haven’t noticed, you haven’t exactly been letting me go out or handing me the paper, you know.”

There was a sense of dread in him at the thought that the killer admitted to the act. He didn’t know why. Oswald should be furious, metaphorically ready to snatch the newspaper from Ivy’s hands, figure out who tried to kill him, and in the same hypothetical fashion writing up plans to find revenge and show that surprise surprise, he wasn’t dead.

No, he felt almost terrified.

Did he really want to remember?

God, he was being stupid. Of course he does. He _has_ to, or else everything will probably fall apart, and Oswald didn’t take kindly to those who do him wrong. He was ruthless. Whoever it was who shot him—they deserved the worst kind of punishment. A bullet to the head would be almost merciful, no—he has to show them that he won’t let this slide off like water on a duck’s back. He tried recalling the events before the river. Like his previous attempts at remembering, nothing. Still, it didn’t hurt to try.

He began listing names. Who could have done this? Zsasz? No, Oswald never pegged him for a traitor, so that was out of the question. Barbara seemed likely. He knew how much she wanted to seat at the table, to make the big decisions, but she couldn’t do it alone. Butch and Tabitha were probably a part of this whole scheme, too—but who pulled the trigger?

Oh.

_Oh._

“It was Tabitha,” Oswald whispered. “Probably to finish the job. First the mother, then the son.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I’ll have her head.”

(The conclusion didn’t feel right.)

“Huh?” Ivy said, raising a brow. “Who’s Tabitha?”

He turned his head to look at Ivy. “Tabitha Galavan. The one who shot me, right?”

“Isn’t that Theo Galavan’s sister?” Ivy asked, confused. “Why would she shoot _you_?”

He blinked. This time, it was Oswald’s turn to be confused. “Because she hates my guts? And because I practically sent Ed Nygma over to torture her and her little boyfriend?”

“Oswald,” Ivy said slowly. “It was Edward Nygma who shot you.”

He blinked.

(He saw clearly the betrayal in his eyes he felt regret he loved him and he needs him Ed Ed _Ed_ —)

Then he laughed.

“Ed, really?” He said, shaking his head, chuckling. “He would _never_ —“

Ivy clenched her jaw and stood up, grabbing the days old newspaper off the table and shoving it in Oswald’s face. “Except he did. He admitted to it.”

_MAYOR COBBLEPOT MURDERED?_

He felt his heart drop, hands shaking as everything slowed down for the briefest of moments, before he quickly snatched the paper from her hands, scanning the paper quickly, searching and scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign—

_According to Lucius Fox, former Chief of Staff Edward Nygma, now dubbed the Riddler, confessed to the cold blooded murder of the missing mayor, in the wake of his recent acts of terrorism. Fox reported Nygma with “a strange look in his eye” when he had brought it up in the middle of a high crisis hostage situation that later turned out to be a bluff—_

His lip quivered, the fingers that were wrapped around the paper tightening as it crinkled the paper, his eyes tearing up.

(I don’t love you.)

“There has to be a reason,” He said, turning to look at Ivy. He sounded almost desperate, and Ivy looked at him, pity in her eyes. “Ed wouldn’t—he would _never_ —“

( _I don’t love you._ )

Except he did.

Ed shot him.

The memory—memories—came back to him now, and he covered his face, fingers digging into his skin and his teeth grit.

(Isabella then his father all pale and ghastly and Ed was gone where was Ed Barbara Tabitha Butch conspiring against him where was _Ed_ everyone hates him nobody loves him Ed please where are you—then Ed Ed Ed, Ed who leaves him breathless, Ed who would do anything for him, Ed who needs him—leaves him for dead and he loves Ed he did he proved it but Ed still shot him and Ed _didn’t love him_ —)

Ivy hesitantly reached out her hand, but Oswald slapped it away, shaking.

“Get out.”

“Oswald—“

“ _Please_ ,” He said through his fingers. “Just leave me alone.”

Ivy stared at him for a long moment, concern etching her features, before leaving and shutting the door behind her.

When she was gone, anger rushed through him, every barrier, every wall—it broke down at the weight of his fury, the rush of his rage—it bubbled beneath his skin, like magma rising up at the surface. All he could feel was blinding wrath, more than he’s ever felt before, more than his grudge towards Tabitha, more than what he felt at his stepmother—

It felt almost crippling. The betrayal. The anger. The heartbreak.

He yelled, grabbing the chair and bringing it down, the wood splintering as it hit the ground. The paper was beneath him, slightly crumped from when it fell from his grasp. He was crying now, from both the rage and the sadness, both emotions whirling together in his chest, but he couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t focus on either of them because it all felt so overwhelming and he just wanted to disappear—

“Fuck!” He cried out, falling to his rear and leaning against the bed. “Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ —“

He covered his face with his hands as his body shook, and then he broke down, his entire body wracked with sobs.

He was heartbroken.

Ed tore him apart.

(And even after all that, why did he still love him?)

 

* * *

 

_Francis and Violet were discreet in their planning._

_Not even Alastair knew what they planned, and not for a lack of trying—the two were extra secretive as of late. Of course, that was to be expected—they were running away. The word “escape” made the situation seem so dire. It wasn’t as if they were prisoners, right?_

_“You’re not coming with them?” Alastair asked Brianna, who shook her head._

_“No,” Brianna admitted, biting her lip. “I mean, I thought about it—“ Of course. “—but I promised I wouldn’t leave you, ‘Stair.”_

_Right._

_He turned to look at her. “It wouldn’t matter if you broke that promise,” He said. “You said that a long time ago. If you want to go, you can.”_

_“I know you don’t mind,” Brianna said with a sigh, watching the fountain as water sprayed out, falling down in gentle arches. “But I don’t want to break my promises.”_

_“Seems a bit pointless,” Alastair said, tilting his head. “I told you, if you left, I won’t stop you.”_

_“But you’d mind,” She said. Before Alastair could respond, she spoke again. “And don’t say you won’t—I know you. As hard as you try to keep all of this shit tight in a little bottle of repressed feelings you need me here. You don’t want me to go.”_

_Alastair stared at her before looking down. “...I don’t,” He mumbled softly. “But I don’t want you to hate me.”_

_“I could never hate you,” She said softly, grabbing his hand. “Not in a million years. We might not be related by blood but you are my_ brother _, Alastair. We’re family. More than she’s ever been to you.”_

_He didn’t reply._

_“What... what if we came with them? Both of us? It’ll be us four, without her. It’ll be like when we were kids.”_

_She sounded desperate. He pulled his hand away, turning his head. “She’s still my mother, Brianna.”_

_“I know,” She whispered. “But I know you—you hate her too, don’t you?”_

_He didn’t know._

_He didn’t want to know._

 

* * *

 

“Remember when we were kids,” Francis said, taking a bite of his croissant. They walked along the busy streets of Gotham, the sound of the train on the old railroad tracks above them loud and grating. Alastair walked with the grace matching a Gotham native—both classy and abrasive. For someone who didn’t grow up here he sure matched the landscape. “And that bitch of a woman made us all play a goddamn instrument? Jesus, I can’t even forget how to play even if I wanted to.”

“Yes,” Alastair said. “It’s fun to do it for leisure, and listening, too. I like the combined sounds of an orchestra. Everyone working together in harmony...” He smiled, laughing slightly. “Ha, harmony. What a delightful joke.”

“You are so weird,” Francis said, shoving a hand in his pocket. He didn’t miss the way passers by would take second glances at Alastair, as if trying to make sure they weren’t seeing things. He chomped down on the croissant, ripping off a piece and tilting his head back so the bitten off piece fell into his mouth. “Also, you’re getting way too much unwanted attention. Everyone’s staring at you.”

Alastair shrugged. “They’re bound to find out about me eventually, Francis. I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but if the police come because you look like a dead guy—“

“They won’t come,” Alastair said. “I’ve noticed the police seem to be ridiculously incompetent in this area.”

“Well, that’s the Narrows for you,” Francis said, wiping his mouth. “My home turf.”

“Oh and by the way, Francis,” Alastair said, turning to look at him as they walk. “What ever happened to Violet?”

He froze. “Oh... uh. She... died.”

Alastair’s expression shifted slightly, brow furrowing. Francis wasn’t sure if there was anything in his eyes. “I’m very sorry about that... is it too much trouble to ask for details?”

“No uh, it’s fine,” Francis said. “It was around a year ago. We were robbin’ a bank for a job, shit went sideways—she caught the wrong end of the gun. GCPD shot her, and I had to go before they caught me, too.”

“So it’s just been you since?”

“Yeah.”

They fell into awkward silence. Some part of Francis wasn’t sure what to make of the whole conversation, but he never bothered to worry about Alastair and whether or not the latter was genuine in his sentiments. It didn’t matter.

“Guess we have that in common,” Alastair muttered.

He nodded.

They were only two left.

  

* * *

 

_Alastair awoke to yelling._

_To be fair, he really wasn’t asleep. Sleeplessness seemed to riddle him more often as of late, and not over guilt, nor was it over anxiety—it was just the norm._

_He felt more tired than he did alive._

_He only felt something for the briefest of moments when adrenaline rushed through him like wind, the life of his target stripped away, before that too flickered and slipped from his grasp, fleeting and fickle._

_He got up, creaking his door open slightly in curiosity._

_“You ungrateful—“ Mama’s voice was clear as day, as shrill as it was. He cringed at the sound, stepping out and shutting the door behind him quietly. “I fed you, I bathed you, and this is how you repay me?”_

_“Ma, stop!”_

_Alastair walked across the hall, stopping as he saw it._

_Mama had one hand on Brianna’s hair, tugging it fiercely, her features contorted into rage._

_“Mama?”_

_Her head turned as soon as she saw him. “Alastair—what are you doing up so late?” She asked, her tone shifting almost immediately. “You need your rest, sweetie.”_

_“I couldn’t sleep,” He said, blinking. “What’s going on?”_

_“Oh, nothing,” She said, though he didn’t fail to notice the way her eye twitched, glancing at Brianna. “Your sister is just being an insolent little_ brat _.”_

_“I am not a brat,” Brianna hissed, glaring at her. Brianna turned and pushed her hands against Mama’s chest, pulling herself away. Before Mama could do anything, Brianna was quick, brandishing a knife she kept inside her nightgown. “Alastair—run.”_

_Mama stared at her. “Oh? You... you think he’s going to run? What makes you think he wants to leave?”_

_“I know he doesn’t want to,” Brianna spat at her. “And we both know whose fault that is.”_

_Mama smiled sweetly. “He’s a good son.”_

_Perhaps it was the sleeplessness, the bouts of insomnia, the exhaustion, but for some reason, there was something in him that broke, and he felt bitterness rise up, and try as he might, he couldn’t push it down._

_Alastair clenched his fists. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Alastair muttered._

_“What’s that, darling?”_

_Alastair bit the inside of his lip, looking off to the side. “Nothing.”_

_She was his mother._

_He couldn’t act like that._

_Like he was ungrateful._

_“Tell your sister,” Mama said. “To stop this charade. Whatever she and the others are planning won’t do them any good. They’ll just be out on the street, begging for food, for clothes... just common street children. In here, you’re better off—I give you shelter, I give you a family—isn’t that what everyone needs?”_

_Mama’s hands curled against the wooden desk behind her, her smile unwavering._

_“You whore out your fucking_ son _,” Brianna spat. “That’s fucked up.”_

_“I give him a purpose.”_

_“You made him a killer.”_

_“I made you all killers, sweetheart.”_

_Brianna’s hand shook. “But you treated him the worst out of all of us,” She said, her grip on the knife tightening. Alastair watched as she took a step forward._

_“Because he was weak. All I’ve done is make him stronger, you can’t fault me for that.”_

_He felt conflicted._

_On one hand, this was Brianna, his sister—the person he cared for the most—but on the other, this was his mother. The one person he wanted to be proud of him, the person he followed without question._

_He didn’t know what to do._

 

* * *

 

The visit to the Court was straightforward. The Administrator knew the address, but they didn’t exactly know _him_ , so Francis was really his ticket to get through. Really, there wasn’t anything he could say that the Adjudicator hasn’t already, but he wanted to just reassert that _he_ was the one in charge here, not the Adjudicator.

At least, that’s what Francis got from the whole ordeal. He knew next to nothing about this whole business, but he knew after he left Alastair had gotten into some pretty deep shit, this being one of them, presumably.

“Where are we going now?” He asked, leaning on the wheel of his car. It was pretty busted, but it was his—he had lots of memories in this piece of shit that he couldn’t bear to let it go.

“My apartment,” Alastair said. “You’re good at finding people, right?”

“Yeah, as long as it involves beating someone up. Why?”

“I’m looking for someone,” He said, turning to Francis. “Can you do that for me?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. Who?”

Alastair took something from his vest pocket, bringing it out with a flick of his wrist. Francis snatched it from where he held it in his fingers, staring at the photograph. “Vague, but okay.”

“You need more money to do it?”

“No,” Francis said, pocketing the image and turning the car key. The engine rumbled, taking a couple of tries with the turn of the key to properly turn on. “I owe you, right? I’ll do this one for free.”

“Didn’t take you for one to do charity work.”

Francis shrugged, pulling out of the side and driving through the street. “That’s what family’s for, right?”

“I suppose,” Alastair said.

He missed the way Alastair’s eyes darkened, staring off into the road.

 

* * *

_  
“Brianna...” He whispered. “What’s going on?”_

_“Francis and Violet are downstairs,” Brianna said, not turning to look at him._

_“You—what?”_

_“Hurry. Run—I’ll get this bitch away from you.”_

_“Don’t leave, pet,” Mama said sharply. Her fingers gripped the desk behind her, eyes narrowed as she looked at Alastair. “Leave and I’ll have your head.”_

_“In case you haven’t noticed,” Brianna said. “I’m the one with the knife. You don’t get to make the demands,_ Mother _.”_

_He was confused._

_Of course he would be, it was the logical course of action in this scenario. He didn’t understand, nothing made sense to him—least of all this confrontation._

_Still, he couldn’t do anything to stop the fear creeping in his back._

_Strange._

_He hasn’t felt that in a while._

_Mama smiled slyly. “Are you sure about that?”_

_It happened quickly. Before Brianna could say anything else, Mama’s hand moved too fast for Alastair to realize._

_“Bri—!”_

_He was halfway through his cry when Mama shot Brianna pointblank, the gunshot ringing through the air. Brianna staggered back, hand touching the blood leaking out from her chest before she sputtered out blood, falling to her knees and hitting the floor with a thud._

_Her knife clattered to the floor, the sound dull through the haze of shock. Everything felt far away, he hardly felt the way his mother held his shoulder, hardly processed how he ran towards his sister, his own body shaking, hardly noticed the running coming from the stairs—_

_—then he felt his heart drop, anger suddenly rushing through him, breaking through like pressure breaking glass._

_She killed Brianna._

_She killed her._

_Mama killed his sister._

_Rage flooded through him, and it was all too much—the pent up resentment and aggression he kept locked away all these years began rising to the surface, and it was all he could think about, all he could focus on was the white hot rage simmering at his fingertips. He was on the ground Brianna’s blood leaking slowly, the warm scarlet of the liquid staining his pajamas. His fingers curled around the knife she had dropped on the floor, Alastair taking a shaky breath, unable to think clearly._

_“Now we can go,” Mama said. “And pretend this all never happened. We can go back to how it was before—“_

_He whipped around, and with the flash of a blade, he ran it through his mother, shock in her eyes for a second before he pulled it out and stabbed her again, and again and again, the rage building up with each thrust of the knife and with each spatter of blood hitting his face._

_Alastair didn’t stop even as the light drained from her eyes and her head fell limp._

_He pulled the knife back, watching as she fell to the ground, his own hand covered in blood—he wasn’t sure whose it was._

_He stared at her body, the fury beginning to fade into a dull muted anger, Alastair taking deep breaths._

_He let the knife fall back to the floor, staggering backwards and exhaustion hit him like a brick, as he felt his back slam against the wall. He slid down halfway, turning his head to the side._

_Francis was there—when did he get there?—with Violet by his side._

_“Holy shit,” Francis breathed out. “You actually did it.”_

_Oh fuck._

_What did he just do._

_He killed his mother._

_But oddly enough—he didn’t feel grief. Didn’t feel regret._

_Just tired._

_“Go,” Alastair said. “Don’t come back.”_

_“We’re not leaving you,” Violet said. “We promised Bri—“_

_“If you haven’t noticed, Brianna’s_ dead _,” Alastair snapped, the two taken aback by the sudden show of emotion. “Now go before the police get here.”_

_He didn’t have to argue the point further._

_Francis nodded—albeit a little fearfully—and grabbed Violet by the arm, rushing down the stairs and Alastair could hear him slamming the door shut from upstairs._

_And he was left there, alone with a dead mother and sister._

 

* * *

 

“This doesn’t look like an apartment,” Francis said confusedly, stepping out of the car.

“Oh it’s up ahead,” Alastair said, walking behind his brother. “Hidden. You know how it goes.”

Whatever.

The place was different than what he’d imagined—it was an alleyway smack dab in the middle of the Narrows, but it was probably some secret hideout his brother had, right? It’d be discreet, not flashy.

He took a step forward, blind to Alastair’s hand holding a gun from behind him.

“So sorry for the ruse,” Alastair said, tone flat and more icy than Francis had anticipated. “It was the only excuse I could think of to get you to come willingly.”

Francis reached a dead end. “What—“ He had only turned around halfway when Alastair pulled the trigger, shooting him in the chest, the sound muffled by a silencer.

He stumbled backwards, hitting the brick wall and staring at Alastair with an expression of confusion.

“I don’t...”

“I can’t have any loose ends, I’m afraid,” Alastair said. “Don’t take this personally, Francis. I only needed you to get to the Court, and even then your usefulness doesn’t extend that far. Really, I can’t have anyone knowing I have an estranged foster brother, now do I? I already have another brother problem on my plate, I can’t add another.”

He should be mad, Francis knew, but the shock was too much and he was so fucking confused.

“Alastair, why?”

Alastair smiled. It was empty.

It reminded Francis of their adoptive mother, her empty smiles and fake words of sweetness. Alastair seemed to take after her in that department.

“Like I said, loose ends, brother,” Alastair said. “And don’t call me Alastair. It’s the _Administrator._ ”

Another shot hit him square in the chest before he thudded to the ground, dead.

 

* * *

 

When Ivy came back, Oswald was sitting on the bed, quiet.

She heard the screaming from outside the door, heard the sobs—and she wanted to enter long before, but she wasn’t sure if Oswald would’ve appreciated that. He did just discover his best friend tried to murder him, after all, and nearly succeeded.

Anyone would want time alone.

Ivy noticed the dried tears on Oswald’s face as she set down a cup of tea on the table, eyeing Oswald carefully.

“Thought you could use a lil pick me up,” Ivy said. “So I made you some tea. You’re a little dehydrated, after all—“

Oswald let out a bitter, empty, laugh. “You know, the second time I met Ed, he told me to drink up for the same reason,” He said. “He nursed me to health too. God, I keep having terrible heartbreaks while sitting in someone else’s bed.”

She didn’t exactly understand what he meant, but she listened regardless.

Oswald turned to look at her. “Do you have a phone?”

She blinked. “Yes... why?”

“I need you to make a call to Valerie Vale of the Gotham Gazette,” Oswald said, standing up. “Tell her the mayor’s alive and he wants Edward Nygma’s _head_ on a stake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not very happy with this chapter, if I’m being honest. Took me a while to write this, mostly because I watched Good Omens recently and went on a downward spiral into a new fixation, making only Good Omens content and completely ignoring this fic for a good two days. Didn’t proofread this, so it kinda sucks, but! I hope you enjoyed this nonetheless. It’s extra long to make up for the couple of days I spent fucking around doing nothing, and extra heavy with backstory. Kinda wish I wrote some parts better, but whatever. Trying to like my work is hard especially when I’m super critical over writing. But thank you to all those who like my work regardless! It means a lot. Comments fuel me too—nudge nudge. They motivate me lots! So thanks to those people who leave comments—I really appreciate it.


	14. Incessant Prodding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy prods at Oswald’s love life. Ed prods at Victor’s relationship with the elusive Administrator.

“Come to think of it, why haven’t you brought along your girls to smooth things along?”

Victor glanced off, biting his lip almost nervously. “I’m keeping it on the DL, y’know?”

Ed stared at him, unimpressed.

Victor sighed. “Fine. I don’t want people to know about me and A, okay? It’s all... kinda personal.”

Ed nodded, staring back at the board the two of them have been working on. For the past few days, they’ve been reluctant allies, finding hints about the mysterious woman. Ed didn’t exactly know why she was relevant, but he knew that Zsasz was definitely keeping something from him.

It was all a matter of figuring out what.

He picked up a paper and pinned it to the board, hand on his chin. “Personal how?”

“Uh, like, ‘none of your damn business’ personal? Jeez, I didn’t know you were this nosy, Nygma.”

Ed rolled his eyes. “It’s my business if it’s going to interfere with whatever we’re looking for,” He said. “You still haven’t told me what it is.”

“Sorry,” Zsasz said. “Confidential.”

“Right,” Ed muttered. As usual.

“I’d tell you if I could,” Victor said. “But honestly, it’s not like A tells me anything, really. He’s really secretive.”

“No kidding,” Ed said, staring at the evidence pinned to the board. “Hm.”

Victor turned to look at him. “You got something?”

Ed nodded, pointing at a newspaper clipping. “Here.”

On the paper was a grainy image of a girl, black and white. She looked familiar—Victor was sure he’d seen that face around. One of those street kids, he thinks.

“What’s so important about her?” Victor asked.

Instead of answering, Ed pushed his glasses up. “My first sees, my last wonders, and what I hold I destroy.”

Victor just gave Ed a confused look. Ed rolled his eyes—of course. Victor wasn’t particularly bright, he reminds himself.

“My first sees—“ He explains. “Eye. Last wonders. Why. Y. Eye-vy. Ivy. When an ivy grows it tends to destroy what’s in its path—and as a vine it tends to embrace, or in this case, hold.”

Victor just blinked.

“Ivy Pepper,” Ed clarified, a little irked. “She’s been missing for a while.”

Victor squinted at the image. “What’s she got to do with the girl?”

“Well,” Ed said, taking out the original image Victor had given him. “Ivy fits the profile, even if it isn’t seen in the image—red hair. And she’s been missing.”

“Yeah but isn’t she like, thirteen?”

“This is _Gotham_ , Victor, I think you can suspend your disbelief when you’re walking in this nightmare of a city,” Ed said. “And when I took a closer look she looked a lot like the woman we’ve been looking for. We could at least look at this lead, see if it takes us anywhere. Besides, they could be related.”

Victor nodded. “But like you said, she’s _missing_ ,” Victor said.

“You said the Administrator has eyes everywhere,” Ed said simply. “Time to put that to use, right?”

 

* * *

 

_The room was cold._

_Alastair’s read that somewhere, he thinks, in some book from long ago—they kept these rooms cold to increase anxiety, help make you crack. But Alastair was nothing if not prepared for these sort of things—his mother helped with that._

_There was this hollow and empty feeling in him as he sat there, staring at the grey wall in front of him. It felt different, somehow, from before—perhaps it was exhaustion from the crying, perhaps it was fatigue from killing his mother, or perhaps both. But it all felt different._

_Everything was now._

_He looked down at his hands. Bloodied and scarred. He wasn’t sure whose blood it was. His sister’s or his mother’s?_

_Regardless, it was there._

_Dully, he notes he should wash it off soon. The blood clung to his nails and it was starting to dry, feeling more than uncomfortable. It was icky, and quite frankly it left him feeling quite disgusted._

_It was like there was a noise in his head that wouldn’t go away—loud and ringing and grating—since Brianna died. It was constant, since the police took him in, since he was forced to wait in here about an hour ago._

_His thoughts wander to Francis and Violet. He hopes they’re okay._

_He didn’t know if he should blame them or not._

_All Alastair knew was that he felt too tired to think._

_The door to the interrogation room creaked open, Alastair flinching as the noise broke through the constant ringing in his had, and a man—at least in his mid 30s, Alastair surveyed quickly—entered, a file in hand. He wore a tan blazer, green tie, glasses, hair slicked back and glasses perched on his nose._

_“Are you a lawyer?” Alastair asked, staring off to the side. “Because if you are, I’m not interested. I don’t care.”_

_The man smiled, though Alastair wouldn’t of have noticed with his own gaze off elsewhere. “No, I’m not,” He said, putting down the folder and grabbing the edge of the metal chair opposite Alastair’s, taking a seat._

_Alastair turned to look at him with a brow raised. “Then what are you.”_

_“Think of me as a sort of social worker,” He said, a little too eagerly. “My name is Tony. I’m an adjudicator.”_

_“What the hell do you adjudicate?” Alastair asks, frown set on his face._

_Tony just smiled wider, knowing glint in his eye. “The organization I work for has been eyeing you for some time, Mr. Prescott—“_

_“—_ don’t _call me that,” Alastair said. “That was my mother’s name.”_

_“Alastair, then?”_

_“Yeah,” He mumbled, looking down._

_Tony nodded. “Well, Alastair, my organization has been eyeing you for some time, and we believe you hold promising potential—“_

_“In what?” Alastair said, unable to keep the sudden torrent of bitterness away from his voice. “_ Murder _?”_

_“Exactly,” Tony said, leaning in closer, hands together. “But of course, you need not pursue that career path if you so wish.” He leaned back against his chair, quiet for a moment. “I am simply here to give you a choice.”_

_“What choice?”_

_“The organization I work for instructed me to offer you to allow me to take custody of you,” He said. “Erasing all evidence of your unfortunate, ah, misdeed—“ He spun his wrist, continuing. “—in the process, or, remain here, and see where your crime leads you. You are, after all, a minor, so I doubt they’ll go hard on you.”_

_“Erase all evidence?” Alastair asked, curious._

_“Yes,” He said. “Even crimes you’ve done before.”_

_“You can do that?”_

_Tony smiled. “It’ll be like a clean slate, Alastair.”_

_The smile wasn’t daunting, wasn’t fake—it was genuine, soft, gentle._

_His eyes softened. “You are, after all, a child. I’ve been watching you for a while, Alastair—and I see things in you. You are capable of so much, even beyond the veil of violence. You only need the right environment, the right place.”_

_Alastair looked up at him, uncertainty flitting in his eyes. “Will... will I be safe?”_

_“Of course,” He said. “You’ll never feel unsafe ever again, Alastair.”_

_His eyes darted around Tony’s face for deception, for falsehood, but all he saw was a gentle smile and the promise of a new future._

_For the first time, he felt something other than rage and numbness in his chest._

_He felt hope._

  

* * *

 

“ _God_ , what is taking her so long?” Oswald mumbled, pacing around the room.

“Watch it!” Ivy said, pulling away a potted plant that Oswald nearly stepped on.

“Sorry,” Oswald said, moving to walk in the other direction. “It’s just—you called them about a tip, right? About my disappearance?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ivy said, exasparated at Oswald’s incessant prodding. He’d asked her this for the tenth time in the past thirty minutes.

“Okay,” He said. “But she should be here by now—“

“Oswald, isn’t she like, a reporter? She’d be busy, you know.”

“But not when it comes to the possibility of a good story, Ivy," Oswald insisted. “I am offering her the chance of a _lifetime_ , what is taking so long—!”

Ivy sat down, pressing her palms against her cheeks. “I’m sure she’ll arrive eventually. In the meantime, you wanna tell me what’s up with you and the Riddler?” She raised her brows suggestively, grin on her face.

“Can you not call him that?” Oswald said, annoyed. “God, the only name worse than the _Riddler_ is the Penguin.”

Ivy lifted a brow. “But you’re the Penguin,” She said.

“Ivy, I hated the name for a good number of years. I just owned up to the title.”

If Oswald were being honest, he would’ve never admitted that. Not to anyone he didn’t particularly care about, at least. But Ivy these past few days has been a friendly presence, he wouldn’t say _friend_ , he still wasn’t up to that just yet, but she was different than anyone else he’d met before. Anyone else he’d known. She was kind, yet teasing, funny—and besides, she didn’t treat him like a person to win over, like someone she wanted to know to get something.

She just... treated him like a friend.

It was different from Jim and from Ed. She didn’t promise things, didn’t act overly poetic like Ed was. She was all cheeky smiles and playfulness.

He would never admit it but Ivy has become someone he’d gotten used to.

Ivy laughed. “Well, it makes for a good nickname. Pengy.”

Oswald pouted. “Sometimes I forget you’re still technically a child.”

“Hey!” Ivy said, mocking fake offense. “I am not a child!”

“Aren’t you like ten?”

“Now you’re just lowering my age to be mean!”

Oswald chuckled. “I’m twice your age, Ivy. I’m allowed to be mean.”

Ivy crossed her arms. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Which is?”

“I wanna knoooow!” She said, standing up and taking Oswald’s hands. She dragged him over, grinning widely from ear to ear. “What’s with you and Nygma?”

Oswald flushed red. “There is _nothing_ —!”

“Oh but there iiiis,” She said, sing song. “You get this funny look in your eye whenever you’re complaining about him.”

The pain from finding out about Ed still hurt. Still, it felt like there was a detachment to his memories after—they were there but it didn’t feel like they were his. After the rage had died down, after the initial shock—everything seemed to be muddled. He didn’t understand what to feel.

He should be angry, yes, enough to kill Ed, but if he were being honest, the memories couldn’t connect with the Ed he knew.

It didn’t feel right.

So he tried to retain normalcy, tried making scheme after scheme to end Nygma’s life, but he knew he’d never be able to fulfill any of them.

Even after all this he was still so damn lovesick.

“You are a cruel woman, Ms. Pepper,” Oswald said simply, slumping into a chair. “But fine. I’ll relent.”

Ivy waited eagerly.

Oswald opened his mouth, but before he could go on the long winded story of the Tragedy That Is Oswald Cobblepot’s Love Life, he suddenly heard a sound. He got up immediately, whirling around at the source.

Ivy seemed to have heard it too, because she was on guard almost instantly.

He heard the cock of a gun and he reached out for the closest weapon—a spade. He quirked a brow at that. Whatever. It’ll work.

“Who’s out there?” Oswald snapped, gripping the spade, shoulders tense and trying to look intimidating despite his small stature. “Show yourself!”

“Now now,” A familiar voice purred, and Oswald’s eyes widened as she entered the scene, nails long and sharp, hair curled and pink streak as vibrant as ever, flanked at the sides by two men. “Is that any way to talk to your _mother_?”

Oswald’s heart stopped.

“Fish,” He whispered.

“Hello, Oswald,” Fish said, smiling. “We need to talk.”

 

* * *

 

Victor’s phone rang halfway through heading home.

“Yello?”

“ _I need you to finish up whatever it is you’re doing,_ ” The Administrator said coolly, not betraying anything in his tone. If Victor was being honest, sometimes the entire emotionless High Table routine was kind of hot. Objectively speaking, of course. He still found it eerie as hell, and to him, every crack he made in the Administrator’s facade was a small victory. “ _I have a task for you.”_

Still, though. It was really fucking hot.

“Yo, chief, chill—what’s going on?” He said, not bothering to voice out his desire for future homoerotic encounters with his employer.

It’s been like that lately. Ever since that stupid kiss, despite the two of them being impossibly horrific at communicating, Victor couldn’t keep the idea of having sexual prospects with the Administrator out of his head. It didn’t _have_ to be intimate, didn’t have to have feelings attached to it (though a part of him wished Alastair would crack and come back to who he was), Victor just found his heart racing every time the Administrator did something so wonderfully stupid and did that dumb repressing his emotions thing.

“ _Gotham Gazette got a tip,_ ” The Administrator drawled, and Victor nearly slapped himself. Gay thoughts later. Work _now_. “ _I’d like for you to check it out. Don’t tell Ed_.”

“You got it—“

And the Administrator already hung up.

Victor pursed his lips.

Time to make a visit to the Gotham Gazette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. This chapter’s a bit short—been hard to write due to lots of personal stuff. I’ve been trying to find time to write and be motivated at the same time, which is really fucking hard to be honest. I cut the chapter here because I feel like my current writing prowess is unable to do justice for the next part, so I’ll write that out as soon as I can. Next three chapters should come along smoothly if things go according to plan. Hopefully it won’t take two weeks this time. I’ll be working on the sequel to birds fly in different directions soon. I think that fic will be shorter (hopefully unless my ideas get out of hand) but I’ll probably be busy with both this and that fic soon. Not to mention I’m writing a script for a Good Omens AU comic thing I wanna make—lord. As always, comments fuel me! It is my gasoline and am Crowley’s Bentley. (Never mind that it doesn’t actually run on petrol, okay listen let me use the metaphor.) 
> 
> please feed me attention ill die w/o it thx


	15. People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fish and Oswald talk. Victor and Ed check out their respective leads.

The tension in the room was clear, from the way Oswald sat down, his shoulders rigid and face taut. He eyed Fish warily, with Ivy standing by with her own cautious stare.

Fish sat as if she owned the place, and had it been anyone else, Ivy would’ve told her off. But this was _Fish Mooney_. Anyone with have a brain would be terrified of her, especially now with her mismatched eyes and hair spiked upwards.

Ivy glanced at Oswald, noticing the way Oswald kept himself composed, shifting his eyes to the two guards by Fish’s side with subtlety.

Though, of course, Fish caught the action and smirked.

“I thought you were with Hugo Strange.”

“He ran off after fixing me,” Fish said, frowning. “But I’m feeling better than ever, thanks to the good doctor.”

“What are you doing here,” Oswald asked—spat, more like, but he kept himself from snapping—voice all but unfriendly.

“When I heard you died,” Fish started, smiling, leaning back on her chair. “There was this sense of... disappointment I felt.”

“Thought you’d be glad I was gone,” Oswald shot back, though it sounded weak.

“Well, of course not,” Fish said, letting distaste show on her face. “You were murdered by a goddamn hack who wears more green than this goddamn place. He calls himself the _Riddler_. That wouldn’t be a way to die.” She looked at Oswald dead in the eye. “Not for you, at least.”

“So why are you here?” Oswald repeated, almost impatient.

“You remember the last time we spoke,” She said. “Like I said, I _made_ you. There is no Penguin without Fish Mooney.” Her lips quirked up into an amused smile, leaning over and her eyes, half lidded, looked at Oswald with almost a possessive admiration, her nails caressing his face. Oswald moved away almost on instinct, his shoulders tensing immediately and his body was all but screaming to run. “My little Penguin.”

To an outsider, they wouldn’t of have known the way Oswald’s eye looked when Fish mentioned that without her, there wouldn’t be a Penguin. No kingpin, no rightful lord of Gotham—but that wasn’t what he focused on.

He recalls what he said to Ed that day on the pier.

_I created Edward Nygma! And I am the only one in the world who truly sees you as you are!_

_Who you can still become._

He looked at Fish, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“I suppose you understand now,” She whispered, eyes shifting to stare at his. “The feeling of creating something.”

He moved away. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” He said coolly.

Fish just sat back, glancing at Ivy lazily before turning her eyes back toward Oswald. The way Fish stared at him brought shivers down Ivy’s spine.

“You are to me what the Riddler is to you,” She stated simply.

“That won’t stop me from killing him after what he did to me,” Oswald said. “He ruined my life.”

“Not quite,” Fish drawled, ever present smirk on her face. “You may no longer be the mayor of Gotham but you are still the Penguin.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How did you even find me?”

She shrugged. “Your little lady friend called in about the whereabouts of Oswald Cobblepot, but of course, I managed to steer them away that end before they could actually try to see you.” She leaned forward, though Oswald was still a sizable distance away from her. “Which brings me to my point.”

“Which is?”

She smiled. “This city is _yours_ , Oswald. Yours and mine. It runs through your veins, the same way it does mine. And it’s time we claimed it, Oswald.”

“You...” He began. “Want to rule the city with me?”

He couldn’t understand why she’d want that.

“Of course,” She said sweetly. “It’s time for Gotham to kneel for its rightful king and queen. It’s time for you and I, and the other _freaks_ —“ She glanced at Ivy before looking back at Oswald. “—to gather.”

“But why?”

“Because like I said, I created you,” She said. “We may not be blood but I am your mother. The _Penguin’s_ mother. I took you in back when you were just a washed up sad little man who had a limp and no way to support his poor old mommy.”

She smiled, the same way she had the past hour.

“Really, if I were to rule this city there wouldn’t be anyone else I’d want to be by my side if not the man I birthed, the man who defeated and murdered me. The man I know you are.”

Oswald looked at her, and there was no deception in her voice, no lies laced with sugar.

Because after all, hadn’t it always been them? He had always been her silent right hand, beside her at every brutal beating, beside her with the damn umbrella with every deal she made. Not Butch—not Butch who followed orders dutifully and without question. No, he was, because the gears in his mind ticked the way hers did, with deceit and cleverness and planning.

It had always been Fish and the Penguin.

One couldn’t exist without the other.

It took them this long to understand it but now they did.

And now they’ll be taking Gotham back.

But...

“You forgive me after what I did to you?” He asked quietly.

She chuckled softly.

“What you did to me,” She said. “Might’ve been the best thing to happen in my entire damn _life_.” She looked at him in the eye. “Because if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be my son, _Penguin_.”

Oswald stared.

Then, he smiled deviously, leaning forward.

“Well then, _Mother_ ,” He said, his tone shifting. “What did you have in mind?”

 

* * *

 

_”This place looks like shit,” Alastair voiced out, eyes narrowing at the almost perfect surroundings. It was a lie, it looked amazing, better than the Prescott manor, or the first two places, really, but he wouldn’t admit that to Tony._

_He’s lived his life in fear for fifteen goddamn years, but for some reason, with Tony’s gentle eyes, Alastair felt like he could be okay._

_It took them a while, though. When Tony first took Alastair, first brought him home, Alastair was fidgety, Alastair was terrified._

_But Tony wasn’t like his mother. He let him read books, let Alastair play music, even hiring Alastair a tutor to help Alastair pursue it. Alastair had given up on it, though, said he preferred maths, so Tony gave him heaps upon heaps of books on math, statistics, economics—and Alastair enjoyed them tremendously._

_Tony let him be normal._

_The fear that his mother had ingrained in him wouldn’t ever really go away. But at least now, he could feel again. He could be himself again._

_It was nice._

_Tony laid down a golden coin at the concierge and smiled at the man as he took his keys, leading Alastair through the hall and to the elevator._

_“I hate these dumb hotels,” Alastair mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets as he watched the numbers of the floors go up. “I wanna go home. Do you really have to do these stupid meetings at these places?”_

_Tony rolled his eyes, smiling. “Um,_ yes _, Al, I do. It’s the only place I can trust not to get shot at.”_

 _“But it’s so_ boring _,” Alastair said, leaning against the wall. “I didn’t know assassin business involved so much diplomacy.”_

_“You’ll find any occupation worth having takes skill in the conversation department.”_

_“Nuh uh,” Alastair said, lifting his head to look at Tony. “I’m going to work in insurance.”_

_Tony looked at him, almost in offense. “Insurance, really?”_

_“The book you gave me on it was interesting.”_

_“Thought you’d have liked to be a writer,” He said. “Well, whatever. You still have to talk to people in insurance.”_

_Alastair let out a groan. “God. No.”_

_“God,_ yes _, actually,” Tony said._

_The elevator doors opened and Tony stepped out first, Alastair following close behind before catching up to walk side by side. “But still, sounds nice.”_

_It was unsaid but Alastair knew what Tony really meant was_ sounds safe.

_“Yeah,” Alastair said. “Do you, uh—“ He looked down at his hands, fidgeting. He looked back up, uncertainty in his expression. Tony stopped in front of their room, fiddling in his pocket for the keys. “—approve?”_

_“Of course,” Tony said, swinging the door open. “I support you in any decision you make. So long that decision, of course, doesn’t involve being a clown.”_

_Alastair laughed. “God what is it with you and clowns, you weirdo?”_

_“They’re scary and make loud noises!”_

_“So do guns!”_

_“Guns aren’t colorful!”_

_Alastair walked in, helping Tony set down the bags. “But yes, I’m not going to be a clown, okay,_ Dad _?”_

_Tony smiled. “Well, good. Because if you were I’d have to shoot you on sight.”_

_Alastair jumped on the bed. “See you later?”_

_“Yep,” Tony said, surveying the room. “I’ll be back after dinner. You can ring ‘em up to bring you food, anyway.”_

_“Don’t die.”_

_“You know I won’t.”_

_And Tony was gone._

 

* * *

 

Victor never really liked Gotham Gazette, but he didn’t hate it either. He’d been there once or twice under Carmine’s orders to scare the shit out of some overly noisy journalists, which was always fun he thinks, but to him at least, these sort of things never clicked.

The clacking of nails pressing against typewriter keys rang throughout the building incessantly, women and men all rushing around with coffee and or phones and getting things done. He didn’t realize newspaper offices were this busy. But to be fair, most offices were.

He tapped his foot impatiently, trying to avoid the wary gazes of the employees flitting about. It wasn’t like he hated attention—far from it. He just didn’t like journalists, always so scrutinizing and idealistic, which made it hard for him to do this without drawing too much notice from the public.

On any normal day, he would’ve walked in flanked at the sides by his Zsaszettes, firing immediately to catch the attention of everyone in here, but one thing the Administrator valued was subtlety. And one thing Zsasz was good at was carrying out orders. A didn’t have to clarify, didn’t have to explain further—Zsasz knew what he wanted and how he should do things.

Still, he wished he didn’t have to do this whole thing with his hands tied.

“Victor Zsasz?” A woman said—Vale, he thinks, remembering her vaguely. She spoke calmly though there was an edge to it, wary and unsure of what Victor wanted. That was normal, of course, considering everyone knew Victor’s reputation as Gotham’s more feared assassin.

“I heard about a tip,” Zsasz drawled, lazily looking at her. “Concerning the mayor. My current employer’s really interested.”

“Can I ask _why_?” She said. God, these journalist types were so cagey.

“Nah, you know how it is,” He said.

Valerie narrowed her eyes. “I can’t just give out information to known criminals.”

Yeah, diplomacy is gonna get him nowhere.

“‘Cept you will,” Zsasz said, and you know what? At this point, fuck subtlety. He took out his gun and pressed it against her chest, and while the Administrator certainly wouldn’t appreciate his actions, this is how he gets things done.

The air in the office suddenly shifted, and Victor would’ve raised a brow if he had one. They all stopped, and the silence was almost as unbearable as the endless click clacking of the typewriters and the heels hitting the wooden floor. “What’re you all looking at? Get a move on, people!”

They all hesitated before continuing about their day—Gotham’s changed but nothing’s changed with how he does things.

Zsasz darted his eyes toward her, menacing and dark under the dim light. He quirked his lips into a smile.

“Now let’s try this again,” He said, and Valerie’s eyes were wide with fear as he clicked off the safety. “Tell me ‘bout that tip.”

 

* * *

 

 _The New York Continental wasn’t exactly_ home _but it was a close second all things considered._

_The man working at the concierge—who he later learns is called Charon—was unsettlingly hospitable at times, but he was friendly. He never scolded Alastair for his behavior, never questioned the way Alastair almost clung to Tony whenever Alastair was surrounded by a number of people._

_So it was nice._

_Alastair only ever let himself be open around his adoptive father (still strange to think of Tony as that, but he calls him Dad anyway), and while he was still wary of everyone else, Charon was a friendly sight to see, someone familiar._

_“Is he done?” Alastair asked, trying to sound nonchalant and casual but darting his eyes toward his feet instinctively as Charon looked at him, an almost fond amusement flitting his expession._

_“Mr. Smith won’t be finished for another twenty minutes, Mr. Alastair,” Charon said. “Would you like for me to arrange for a beverage while you wait?”_

_“God—no,” Alastair said, moving to sit down to wait at the lobby. “We’re checking out as soon as he’s done, anyway.”_

_“Of course,” Charon said. “I do hope you enjoyed your stay at the Continental.”_

_“Are you kidding? It’s a five star hotel. How can I_ not _enjoy?”_

_Charon just smiled. “Yes well, we do pride ourselves in excellent service.” He was interrupted before he could continue._

_At that moment, someone walked through the hotel entrance, walking over to Charon. The two exchanged a short conversation, before Charon smiled and handed him his key, taking the gold coin that was slipped towards him and saying, “Enjoy your stay at the Continental.”_

_The guest walked away, heading over to the elevators._

_“How do you do it?” Alastair asked._

_“Hm?”_

_“Be so cordial and friendly,” Alastair clarified. “I can’t do that. It just... looks so hard. Don’t some people get irritating?”_

_“Well,” Charon said. “At times, visitors and guests at the Continental can be... difficult. But our policy is always to prioritize our guests’ comfort above else.”_

_Alastair nodded. “I don’t think I could ever do that,” He said honestly. “I just...”_

_“Don’t like people?” Charon finished for him._

_“No it’s not that, I just—“ Alastair said. “—sometimes people can be_ scary. _”_

_“Overwhelming?”_

_“Exactly,” Alastair said. “Too much noise, too much things people expect from you. Sometimes I’d rather Dad didn’t keep me out of the house a lot, but at the same time... I’ve never been like this out of the house before. It’s almost freeing, I guess. Before Tony, I...” He trailed off, looking at the floor. “...’m kinda glad he doesn’t really expect anything of me, but it makes me feel so restless.”_

_Charon nodded understandingly. “Is there anything you’d like to do in your spare time, then?”_

_Alastair held on to the handle of their luggage. “Like what?”_

_“Hobbies, interests—anything that may make your stay at the Continental more comfortable.”_

_Alastair thought for a moment. “Well I... like books. And music, sometimes.”_

_Before Charon could respond, Tony arrived, a duffel bag around his shoulder. He walked over to Alastair, smiling. “Well, buster, ready to go home?”_

_“Finally,” Alastair said, getting up. Tony walked over to Charon and returned the keys, and before the two left, Alastair turned around. Charon smiled at him, and Alastair, although uneasy, gave a smile back._

 

* * *

 

Ed found the mystery surrounding the Administrator to be absolutely maddening.

At this point, the redhead was a dead end. There were hardly any reports on Ivy Pepper, and while her background as a street kid with a penchant for plants was interesting, it was hardly anything that backed up his suspicions.

So, he was back to square one.

Still, though—this wasn’t what Barbara was paying him for. She wanted him to find more about the Administrator, and while he was curious about the importance of the unnamed Jane Doe on the image, he had to put his efforts in discovering what was it the Administrator was hiding. He owed it to her, after all, since she’s giving him all his resources. A man like that... there’s bound to be a story there.

Still, it was hard. Increasingly difficult too, because with each possible lead it always leads nowhere, with Ed starting over every time. It was starting to piss him off, because while he loved a good puzzle, it was infuriating if it was _impossible_.

He stared at the papers he laid out. Some were newspapers, some files—all of them seemed disorganized and awfully senseless. Still, he had to start somewhere.

One thing he knew was the Administrator wasn’t from Gotham.

So he’d start from there.

But first...

He looked down at the file on Gertrud Kapelput, and the details surrounding her son’s birth.

That was a dead end too, because everyone who helped her at Oswald’s birth was dead—another cover up, Ed surmised—but maybe they didn’t _have_ to be alive.

One name caught his attention.

 _Teresa Prescott_.

Now where did he see that name before...

He quickly rummaged through the newspapers on the desk and picked one up, opening it wide to scan where he saw that name.

His eyes skimmed through the articles, through the long winding text, until he found something.

_Teresa Prescott, age 42, found dead at her home..._

Now that wouldn’t be interesting, at least, not normally—all the others died as well, but that wasn’t what caught his attention.

What caught his attention was she died fifteen years after all the others. The others died soon after Oswald was born, all under mysterious circumstances. But Teresa Prescott was found with multiple stab wounds and her adoptive daughter dead with her.

Ed smiled, letting out a low chuckle.

 _Finally_.

A lead.

“Well well, Ms. Prescott,” He said. “Now where do you fit into all this?”

 

* * *

 

Valerie Vale told Victor that a woman named Ivy called about Oswald, which proved Ed’s suspicion, though now that that was clear Victor didn’t really have a need for Ed anymore. She said it was a dead end, but if there was anything Victor knew, it was that someone most likely threw the esteemed reporter off the scent.

Probably the Administrator, Victor thinks, taking a car and driving to the address.

He hopped off the car as soon as he arrived. It was homey, he thinks, heading over to the front door and prepared to kick it open, but when he did, he found the lock was already broken.

Weird.

There was shuffling coming from inside, and Victor had his gun out the ready, walking cautiously.

“...Fries and Pike,” Oswald’s voice rang out, and Victor knew he was alive, but hearing it after all this time was still a relief. It was a sudden shift from the Administrator’s cold and icy inflection, and it was familiar. It was almost _friendly_ , even, and Victor inched closer to where the voice is coming from. “We’ll have to get them, of course.”

“Didn’t you run them out of town?” Another voice asked—this one was unfamiliar.

“Yes, I think I can angle them toward my side considering—“

Victor decided that would be the perfect time to interrupt, suddenly entering.

Everyone in the room immediately went quiet, all guns pointed at him.

He raised his arms up in surrender. “Hey,” He said, surveying the room.

There was Oswald, which was a goddamn relief because that meant everything they were working towards wasn’t just a complete waste of time, and he stood up, staring at Victor with wide eyes. After weeks of being around the most emotionally cut off man on the planet who carried the same face, Oswald’s sudden show of emotion was like a breath of fresh air. “Victor?!”

Yeah, he missed that voice. Zsasz waved. “Hey, boss.”

Beside Oswald was a person he had never seen before, but knew from images. Ivy, he was guessing.

Red hair, pale skin, pretty eyes... she was kinda cute.

(Victor idly thought if that made him creepy, because wasn’t Ivy like a kid? Thinking about that made his head hurt, so he just averted his gaze somewhere else.)

Fish Mooney. Oh fuck.

“What are you doing here?” Oswald asked.

“Got someone looking for you,” Victor said honestly, casting a side eye glance towards Fish, who raised a brow at him. “But looks like someone got to you first.”

Oswald narrowed his eyes. “What do you want, Victor?”

“Nothing, really,” He said. “But I’m hired by someone you might be interested in meeting.”

“Who the hell would I want to meet?” Oswald asked, frowning. “You’re being vague.”

“Victor,” Fish said smoothly. “It would be nice if you could tell us what’s going on, or else we might have to be forced to get it out of you one way or another.”

Victor just cracked a grin. “Ooh, sounds fun.”

“Victor,” Oswald said, and it was clear he was losing his patience. “ _What_ are you doing here?”

“You’ve got family who’d love to meet ya, chief,” Victor said. “Well, this has been great, but I really gotta go. Can’t stick around, I gotta tell the boss what’s up.”

Before they could make a response, Victor turned around and left.

If he stayed any longer he might get on Fish’s bad side, and he had to tell the Administrator he found Oswald.

Then they can work things out.

 

* * *

 

_”Dad,” Alastair said, hands on the piano keys. He turned his head to look at Tony, who was busy typing away on a typewriter, cigar in his mouth._

_“Yeah, Al?”_

_“Do you think I should go to school?” He asked. “Be normal?”_

_“If you want,” Tony said. “But I don’t think it’s necessary if you don’t want to. You’re already a genius, what use would public schooling give you?”_

_“I mean,” Alastair said. “People. Talking. You said that I should talk to people.”_

_“If you’re ready,” Tony said. “But there’s really no pressure, I mean—“_

_“Dad, I’m_ sixteen _,” Alastair said. “I should at least have one friend my age, right?”_

_Tony sighed. “Look, as much as I’d love for you to have friends, Al—you can’t force these things. I’m all for you trying to reach out to people, but if you only want to do it to try to fit in... that’s not exactly good, Al.”_

_Alastair looked away. “I just want to be normal.”_

_“I know you do,” Tony said. “And that’s fine! I just don’t want you to feel pressured to have friends.”_

_Alastair looked down at the piano keys. “It’d be nice to have someone else to talk to, though.”_

_Tony was quiet for a moment. “Well... I might have a solution.”_

_Alastair lifted his head back up to look at his father. “Yeah?”_

_Tony pushed his glasses up and lifted his hands away from the typewriter, moving to open a drawer from under his office table. “As an adjudicator, I’m tasked to converse with lots of people, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”_

_Alastair nodded, unsure of where he was going with this._

_“Well,” Tony said, taking out a stack of folders. “At times I meet teens—kids your age—who might benefit from our organization’s sponsorship. That was what I was tasked to do with you, but I felt that you weren’t like the others, you could use a different sort of mentorship.”_

_“Yeah, I know all of that already,” Alastair said. “I don’t get it—“_

_“I can try getting one of these kids to talk to you,” Tony finished._

_“Wouldn’t that be a little... forced?”_

_“Not necessarily,” Tony said. “You could benefit from talking to someone who has had similar experiences to you, and vice versa. And I wouldn’t_ arrange _for them to talk to you... I could simply mention you to them while discussing other matters.”_

_Alastair nodded. “Okay that... that sounds pretty logical. But what if they don’t like me?”_

_“Then we can figure something else out.” Tony walked over, putting a hand on Alastair’s shoulder. “And that’s their loss. You’re a wonderful kid, Al. You deserve someone to see that.”_

 

* * *

 

Fish being around wasn’t ideal, Victor knew, and as he sat in his car a good distance away from Ivy’s house he dialed the Administrator’s number.

“ _Victor_?” The Administrator’s voice crackled through the receiver. After hearing Oswald after a good number of weeks of the formerly dead mayor being gone, the similarities between the two voices was all the more clearer to him. “ _Did the tip pan out?_ ”

The audio quality was so poor though, so he couldn’t really make a fair comparison.

“I found him,” Victor said. “But uh, we may have a problem.”

Silence on the other end.

“Hello?”

“ _What kind of problem?_ ” The Administrator asked, and Victor bit his lip.

“A Fish sized sorta problem,” Victor said. “She found him first. She, uh... well, I don’t really know if she hates him _now_ , but she’s trouble.”

“ _Thank you for the information, Victor,_ ,” The Administrator said, and from his tone of voice he sounded less than pleased.

Victor was betting after he hangs up the Administrator’s gonna throw a fit.

This was definitely fucking up some of A’s careful planning. While the Administrator doesn’t exactly tell Victor everything, Victor knew to some extent that he wanted to oversee Gotham _with_ Oswald. But Fish Mooney was definitely an unpredictable factor in this entire ordeal, and Victor wasn’t sure what she wanted.

They’d have to play their cards right.

“ _Send me the address._ ”

“Okay, but A—“

“ _What_?”

“About the uh, marker...”

The Administrator paused. “... _what about it_?”

“Technically I’m free from it now, right?”

“ _Yes, so you’re free to go,_ ” The Administrator said. “ _That’s what you want, right?_ ”

Victor pursed his lips. “Look, if you need me to do anything else, I’m all for it,” Victor said. “Our transaction’s over but if you still need my services I’m willing to offer ‘em.”

There was silence on the other end and Victor almost thought the Administrator hang up until he suddenly spoke up.

“ _I’ll think about it,_ ” The Administrator said. “ _That would be nice. Thank you, Victor._ ”

“No problem, chief.”

And with a click, A had hung up.

Still, despite the static through the receiver, the words felt more intimate than they really were.

Guess this means he’s still employed.

 

* * *

 

_Alastair was hiding in his room when Tony had Victor Zsasz over._

_Alastair obsessively read over his file, which he admits was a little creepy, but he couldn’t help but feel intrigued._

_Thus leading to his current predicament._

_He cracked his door slightly open when he heard them near his room, staring at Victor, biting his lip._

_Victor had his back turned to Alastair, and he marveled at the sight of him, so confident and casual and_ different _. He was... cool._

_Which, admittedly, Alastair was not._

_Alastair might have been sheltered with the only opportunity for human interaction being planned assassinations but he did know the objective requirements to be deemed “cool”._

_One: be confident. Two: be ridiculously hot._

_Alastair was neither of these things._

_Victor Zsasz, on first observation, definitely was._

_This was the third person Tony had over, which made Alastair cross his fingers and hoped that third time’s the charm wasn’t some bullshit created by society, even though it probably was. The first was a girl named Helena Kirkland, who Tony thought could bond with Alastair because they shared a mutual experience in matricide, and when Alastair tried to go in depth about his favorite novella, she immediately told Alastair she was a lesbian which made the entire conversation die off in the same millisecond and leaving Alastair unhopeful for any future friendly interactions with her. The second was a boy named Nikolai Kuznetsov, who seemed to be even_ more _socially inapt than Alastair was, which was saying something. He didn’t even reply when Alastair mumbled a hello, instead staring for five seconds before screaming at him and Tony had to walk Nikolai out._

_So, really, Victor seemed like a godsend._

_Victor turned and caught his eye, and Alastair immediately scrambled back to bed. Shit fuck he ruined that already, dammit—_

_The door opened further with a loud_ creak _and Alastair pushed back against the bed frame, trying to pretend he was reading a book and not creepily staring at his father’s guest._

_“Hey,” Victor said._

_“You don’t have hair,” Alastair squeaked. God, that was not a good way to greet someone._

_Victor just laughed. “Yeah, I noticed. You’re, uh, Tony’s kid?”_

_“Yep,” Alastair said, voice high. “A-Alastair Prescott.”_

_“You don’t have his surname?”_

_“I’m, um. Adopted.” He looked down at his book, biting his lip._

_“Oh,” Victor said. “Well, I’m Victor—“_

_“—Zsasz,” Alastair finished, before flushing pink. “I, um, read your file. Sorry. That was probably really creepy, so, um, if you think I’m weird—“_

_“You’re definitely weird,” Victor said, walking closer. Alastair flushed further, hiding his face in his book. “But it’s cool, I mean, it’s no big deal.”_

_“Y-yeah?” He asked, lifting up his head._

_“So what did you see in my file?”_

_“N-nothing, really,” Alastair said. “Just basic stuff. Where you’re from, how old you are... things like those.”_

_“Well,” Victor said, jumping on the bed and crossing his legs to sit down in front of Alastair, palms pressed against his cheeks. “Since I know nothin’ about you, it’s only fair I get to ask you stuff about yourself, right?”_

_“I suppose...”_

_Victor grinned. “Cool.”_

_“So, um...”_

_Tony’s head poked into the room before Victor could ask anything. “Oh, hey, uh, Victor, I think you should get going,” Tony said. “Me and Alastair have movie nights on Fridays. I uh, hope you understand.”_

_“Oh, it’s all good,” Victor said, hopping off the bed. “See ya around, A.”_

_As Victor left, Alastair felt a flutter in his chest._

_Victor Zsasz was cool._

_So awesomely cool._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really to say about this one, it’s kind of a lackluster chapter really, but I did enjoy writing it. And as always, comments fuel me so! It’d be lovely if you leave one <3 Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> this is really bad but maybe people wanna see more of this?? there hasnt been lots of gotham/jw crossovers and this idea has been on my mind a lot lately so i decided fuck it and why not


End file.
